


Cryptanalysis: Blacking Out The Friction

by enthusiasticinformedfragging



Series: Slavecoding [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Whirl is not Jetstream, Accidental Stimulation, Betrayal, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Coerced Pornography, Coping, Courtship, Delusions, Disabled Robot, Dissociation, Distribution of Coerced Pornography, Exposure, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Invasion of Privacy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Objectification, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Medical Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Slavery, Past Torture, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Porn Video, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Public Display of Affection, Public Humiliation, Rape Recovery, Reenacted Trauma, Relationship Negotiation, Retraumatisation, Robogore, Scars, Self-Hatred, Spark Sex, Survival Strategies, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Trust Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming, Whump, slavecoding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 62,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthusiasticinformedfragging/pseuds/enthusiasticinformedfragging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" “You're too nice to me, doc.”</p><p>“I think you ought to be kinder to yourself, honestly.” Rung's brow furrowed with concentration as he screwed in another panel of the ship. They lapsed into silence again, he felt more at ease than he had in longer than he could remember. Whirl's EM field, however, still shimmered with touches of anxiety.</p><p>“We haven't really talked about it, y'know?” Whirl said. “But it changed stuff, didn't it?”</p><p>He didn't have to say what "it" was. They both knew.</p><p>“It did,” Rung agreed, hesitated. “If I had to live with the coding again, I would not pick anyone else to be my master. You were very good to me.” "</p><p>Rung's slavecoding is dormant once more, but he and Whirl remain shaken by their ordeal. They resolve to make the most of the present, but there are still plenty of monsters from Rung's past waiting to catch up with him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And here it is! The lovely third part to enthusiasticinformedfragging (previously known as Author Anon)'s story. This installment is looking to be big, 20+ chapters. Good news for Rung pain lovers (aka me) it would seem our protagonist has not yet earned his happy ending. -Interrobam

At the words, _'I'm fine,'_ reality came crashing back, reminding Whirl of everything Rung had suffered over the last few decaorns. Whirl abruptly released Rung from the hug.

“Scrap,” he said, and he drew his claws close to his own chassis. “Doc, I'm sorry—I fragged this up—you haven't gotten to make any choices for _how_ long and the first thing I go and do is grab you without even asking—” He dug a blunted claw into the armor above his spark, guilt eating at him. “After all the scrap you just went through, I bet you never even want to see my fraggin' face again. Well,” he gestured vaguely at his helm. “Not face, but. I wouldn't blame you.”

No, no he wouldn't. He'd gone into that storage room expecting not to walk back out. Nobody would've missed him; he'd specifically _told_ them not to revive him. Even with the coding gone, seeing Whirl had to sting.

Rung would be better off with him gone. If they wouldn't let him die in peace, well—

“I'll get off at the next mech-friendly port,” he said. “Ratch'll have me patched up by then, so nobody has to feel bad, and nobody has to deal with me—”

“Whirl.”

“—doesn't even have to be mech-friendly, honestly, I can get by with the holomatter thingamajig, get fuel, whatever. I—”

Rung's hand reached up to rest on the claw worrying at the plating above his spark, and he fell silent.

“Whirl, I don't want you to go.”

Whirl _felt_ his spark stutter. “Doc, you don't mean that. Even you can't be that—that _good_. It's okay to be selfish sometimes, y'know.”

Rung's expression went unfocused and thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose it is all right to be selfish sometimes.” He stood, and Whirl's spark started to sink even as it calmed, because at least _this_ was something he understood—

And then Rung leaned over the berth and pressed a kiss to the side of Whirl's helm.

He couldn't manage speech; his vocalizer only produced static. Instead he sent out a flurry of confused and questioning glyphs over short-range comms.

“I don't want you to go,” Rung repeated, and the warm air venting against the side of Whirl's helm left him giddy and dizzy.

“Rung, if you keep that up, I'm going to need to induce medical stasis,” Ratchet said, his voice irritable but amused.

Rung pressed another soft kiss to the side of Whirl's helm, and Whirl could—could _feel_ his smile. “If I don't, he won't believe me.”

Ratchet motioned at a monitor with a thumb. “His spark is still flickering, and you're not exactly helping.”

Rung and Whirl both turned to look at the spark monitor—sure enough, when Rung gave Whirl another tentative kiss, his readings flared dangerously.

“Maybe I should induce stasis anyway,” Ratchet said, turning to look down at Whirl's snapped restraints. “If he's still at risk of hurting himself and undoing all my hard work—”

“Work _I told you not to do_ ,” Whirl muttered, clicking his claws.

“—yeah, that just signed you up for medical stasis. Kiss him good night, Rung.”

***

Whirl had taken enough damage from the spark-snuffing gun that he was berth-bound and not allowed to do _anything_ fun. Ratchet said his spark had already been weakened by jumpstarting Rewind after the explosion a while back, or it wouldn't have taken so long to recover, which just proved to Whirl that his spark wasn't meant for _helping_ people, and they should've left it snuffed.

But, for the next several decaorns, any time Whirl woke, Rung was at his side. Sometimes he was snuffling in light recharge, his helm resting against Whirl's berth. Other times he was reading from a datapad, his optic ridges furrowed, a stylus caught between his denta. Whirl had once caught him humming and nodding his head in time with the beeping of Whirl's spark monitor, which had greatly embarrassed Rung when Whirl's spark had flared at the sight and thrown him offbeat.

Rung's first question was always, “And how are you feeling?” As if their conversation never really ended, only paused. Once he'd gotten a decent answer, he would nod and ask, “What would you like to do now?”

It was—nice. Weird, sure, but nice.

Sometimes Whirl asked to hear gossip from around the ship. Since Rung could basically go anywhere unnoticed, he was a real pro at overhearing the really fun stuff. He'd seen Skids kiss Swerve while overcharged; he'd overheard the minibots all planning a slumber party; he'd seen Brainstorm making lovey-dovey eyes at his briefcase—

What, so Whirl liked to find out who was kissing who and being all buddy-buddy with each other. Everybody found that kinda scrap interesting! Rung about the only one who wouldn't tease him for the curiosity. And it gave him an excuse to call couples 'lovebots' and make 'em blush when they walked past the medbay, which was about as much fun as he was allowed to have.

Other times he'd ask Rung what he'd been reading, and he'd get to spend a few joors listening to Rung read aloud. Usually it was a murder mystery, and Whirl had about a 98% accuracy rating at figuring out the murder methods—much higher than Rung's dismal 36%. But Rung had a 100% accuracy rating at guessing culprit and motive, so Whirl just gave up on guessing that part. He couldn't help but think Rung would've made a way better cop than he had.

To be fair, Rung made a way better everything than Whirl did.

And sometimes it wasn't a detective story but a romance novel, which was hilarious and kinda adorable. Rung blushed whenever he read sappy lines, and Whirl made careful note of his favorites.

One day, about a decaorn into his berthrest, Rung was telling him about the new ship model kit he'd picked up at their last stop, his optics lighting up and making Whirl's spark go all tingly again. It was—it was so far above and beyond just keeping an ex-patient company. He'd seen Rung comfort Fort Max after being held at gunpoint, but Whirl had made his spark gutter no fewer than five times in the two decaorns he'd spent trying to look after Rung, and here—here he was, eagerly talking to Whirl as if he had never done any such thing.

He didn't deserve it.

“Don't you have anything better to do?” he asked despite himself. Rung had patients—had responsibilities. “I'm not even your patient anymore.”

“No,” Rung said, giving an agreeable smile, as if that answered everything.

“If you feel guilty about me...” Whirl trailed off and gestured at his spark, not sure if it'd upset Rung to mention it more bluntly. “Well, that's on me, not on you. You don't hafta do this.”

Rung frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but then Ratchet approached from the other side of the room, clearing his throat.

“Whirl,” Ratchet started, then reset his vocalizer with a frown. “I've been meaning to ask—why did you blunt your claws?”

Whirl looked away and shrugged.

“He was afraid he might hurt me, I believe,” Rung said. “When recharging, I have a bad habit of, well, snuggling.”

Whirl snorted. “I didn't sleep for a klik that first night,” he said. “Look at this little guy! One bad memory feedback, and snip!” He looked down at his blunted claws—it had hurt like the Pit to dull the edge, to wear away at his own plating. They weren't as sensitive as servos, but they had the highest sensor density of anywhere other than his pedipalps after all his upgrades.

Ratchet vented heavily. “That's what I thought,” he said. “And, lemme guess—you also wanted to give better massages, right?”

Whirl tensed, then twisted to look at him. “How'd you know about the massages?” he asked.

Ratchet flushed and coughed. “Well, hrrm. The truth of the matter is that Rodimus installed a camera in his washracks.”

Whirl cycled his optic, thinking of every sappy thing he'd said and done thinking nobody was watching. “Frag,” he said, his voice quieter than he'd intended. He'd had so much fun getting Rung to blush about romance novels that maybe Primus thought it was only fair to make Whirl blush enough to make his helm burst. He reset his vocalizer, struggled for words, and offlined it again, burying his helm in his claws.

“That's an invasion of—” Rung began, but Ratchet just snorted.

“Look, you show up staggering and weak at the bar. He orders you high-grade, threatens the bartender when asked what's going on, then drags you back to his habsuite.” Ratchet crossed his arms. “The next morning he calls me to tell me you're sore enough that you need an oil bath. What did you _expect_ me to do?”

Rung bristled, but Whirl just nodded with a soft vent.

“Wait, you're not angry?” Ratchet asked, arching an optic ridge at Whirl. “I thought you'd be furious.”

“You were lookin' out for Rung,” he answered, shrugging. “I'm glad you had his back.” He thought of all the times he'd nuzzled Rung's helm and murmured, _'Good boy,'_ and nearly offlined from sheer embarrassment. “But you better not tell anybody, got it? That—that was _really_ fragging embarrassing.”

“Whirl did absolutely nothing—”

“I watched every klik. Believe me—I know exactly what he did and didn't do.” He pinked a little, which didn't help Whirl's abject humiliation. “That's why I'm asking about the claws.”

Whirl would've frowned if he could've. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I misjudged you.” Ratchet shrugged. “I know you don't want hands for whatever reason, but I could improve your claws.” He pulled some schematics up on a nearby monitor, and Whirl stared.

And stared.

“Those would allow him to craft again, wouldn't they?” Rung asked, pointing at the delicate tools and digits within the claw.

On the outside, they were heavy things meant for punching rather than slicing, so he'd still be brutal on the battlefield, but he wouldn't hurt Rung accidentally when holding hands. But on the inside, they hid the power to have again what he'd lost.

Whirl's voice was scratchy with static when he spoke. “Why?”

“I watched that footage live, bracing myself for, well.” He and Whirl shared a look; they both knew what most mechs would have done with absolute power over someone. “And y'know what I got instead? I got to watch somebody doing his damnedest to rise to the occasion. Somebody trying his best to take care of a friend when it would've been the easiest thing in the world to just _take_. You did better than I think most mechs would've, Whirl. You impressed me.”

Whirl buried his helm in his claws again. “You can't tell _anybody_ ,” he pleaded, embarrassment almost overwhelming him. “Okay?”

“Whirl, there is no reason to be embarrassed,” Rung said, and his field reached out to brush against Whirl's, full of warmth and—and something Whirl didn't actually recognize. “You did an admirable job. We're proud of you.”

“I didn't, though.” Whirl's claws clenched reflexively, leaving tiny dents where they pressed against his helm. “I—I said the wrong thing so many times. You nearly starved yourself to death because I didn't fragging know how to take care of you. I watched your spark gutter _five times_ because I told you no!”

He still had nightmares about it, but he wasn't going to admit that much.

Rung reached up to gently pry Whirl's claw away from his helm. “You also pinched your own spark chamber closed so the code wouldn't force me to merge with you,” he said.

“Scrap, you noticed?” Whirl groaned. “Did it go after you for that? I—I couldn't—you weren't in your right mind, you couldn't say yes or no and actually mean it—but my fragging manual override stopped working and it was trying to open itself and I—I _couldn't_.” He looked over at Rung, searching his expression. “Did it get you for that?”

Rung shook his head. “You redirected it safely,” he said. “But—I was only gone ten kliks, and you were burning with charge when I left. How did you manage to clear the charge _and_ contact Chromedome?”

Whirl cracked up. Mushy stuff was embarrassing, but fragging? Yeah, he had experience talking about that. “Medical override,” he answered. “You think anybody wants to frag somebody without a face? Yeah, right.” He shook his helm and laughed again. “I learned how to purge charge as soon as they made me into a weapon.”

“That's not healthy,” Ratchet said, scowling. “Medical overrides to clear charge are meant for dire situations—”

“Like makin' sure Rung didn't come back to find me all charged up,” Whirl answered. “Why the Pit do you think I sent him out right after he'd refueled instead of making him rest a bit?” He vented and rolled his optic. “Seriously, what do you think the coding would've thought about that?”

Silence stretched between them.

“ _Yeah_ , that's what I _thought_.” Whirl crossed his arms.

“Well, I think you've only reinforced my original point,” Ratchet said. “I misjudged you, and I'd like to upgrade your claws.”

Whirl looked down at the blunted claws Rung had pulled down to rest between them. Imagined being able to build again. “I guess I could help you with your next ship, huh?” he asked, his voice far away. “Unless you'd rather it be all yours.” He could respect that. He'd been proud of his watches. Hadn't wanted help.

Rung's field flared with that unidentifiable emotion again, and he squeezed Whirl's claws. “I would like that very much.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl tries out his new dexterity. Rung has a proposal and some very strong arguments in its favor.

Rung found it easiest to work with Whirl on the medbay berth itself, the ship parts spread out across the blankets. They could sit in silence and pass the pieces back and forth as necessary. The new claws worked wonders, impressing everyone but Whirl himself with how quickly and accurately they integrated.

“This takes about ten times longer than it used to,” Whirl muttered—as he did every time a fiddly bit got away from him. “I could've had the whole ship done by now with my old hands.”

“I'm in no hurry,” Rung said, and he was keenly aware that Whirl's plating heated when he smiled.

“You're too nice to me, doc.”

“I think you ought to be kinder to yourself, honestly.” Rung's brow furrowed with concentration as he screwed in another panel of the ship.

They lapsed into silence again, and Rung felt more at ease than he had in longer than he could remember.

Whirl's EM field, however, still shimmered with touches of anxiety.

“Is something bothering you?” Rung asked, passing Whirl the ship model. “I'm no longer your therapist, but, as a friend, I am more than happy to listen.”

At the word _friend_ , Whirl's field pulsed with pride and satisfaction and—and a deep-seated affection that Rung might not have recognized prior to re-experiencing slave coding. He still felt oddly tuned to Whirl's field and voice.

“We haven't really talked about it, y'know?” Whirl said. “But it changed stuff, didn't it?”

He didn't have to say what _it_ was. They both knew. “It did,” Rung agreed, then hesitated. He'd avoided the topic for a number of reasons, not least that it had ended in Whirl's near-death. “If I had to live with the coding again, I would not pick anyone else to be my master. You were very good to me.”

Whirl vented a heavy sigh and said nothing—but his EM field made it clear that he disagreed.

Rung set a hand on Whirl's leg and looked up at him with all the sincerity he felt. “I mean it.”

The intensity of the single yellow optic almost prompted him to look away, but Rung maintained his gaze until Whirl looked away. “I know you mean it.” Whirl's voice was soft and gentle as it never was around anyone else. “But that's what I don't get.”

Rung onlined his vocalizer, but further explanation eluded him. “May I curl up with you?” he asked, suddenly craving the full-body contact of a proper snuggle. He remembered how nicely he fit beneath Whirl's cockpit, how reassuring it was to feel that spark pulsing nearby. It had been decaorns, and he'd—he'd missed this. “I find myself suddenly tired.”

“Of course you can,” Whirl said, setting the ship aside and lifting an arm to make room for Rung to cuddle up close. “Sheesh, doc, you don't gotta ask.”

Rung settled in on Whirl's lap, resting his helm against Whirl's shoulder. The arm at his waist anchored him. “You're right,” he said. “We should talk about this.”

Whirl grunted, and his field flared with panic before Rung pushed back with a wave of reassurance. “What's there to talk about?”

“I was a little preoccupied with my own situation,” he said. “The coding would not allow me to safely conceptualize the notion of a Master who did not want a slave. I don't have a very good idea of how the experience affected you as a result.”

“You want to know what it was like to—” Whirl seemed to gag on the words that tried to follow. “It was fraggin' scary.” The arm at Rung's waist tightened. “Do you have any idea how easy it woulda been to just forget? For ten kliks?”

The disgust curling around Whirl's field was nothing to the full-body shudder that jostled Rung where he lay pressed against him.

Rung offlined his vocalizer and gave the thought serious consideration. He tried to imagine having that kind of responsibility for anyone—tried to imagine what it would be like for a mech who had deliberately chosen not to filter his thoughts to have to watch every word. “I wouldn't have blamed you,” Rung said, his voice very soft. “Even if you'd made a mistake.”

“That's the worst part,” Whirl said. “I _did_ make mistakes, doc. You nearly died. And you keep acting like I didn't. But I _did_.”

Rung sighed and pressed his face into Whirl's side. “Fine. Then I forgive you.”

“I don't deserve something like that,” Whirl insisted, but he traced a reassuring claw up and down Rung's spinal strut.

“No one _deserves_ forgiveness,” Rung said. “It's mine to grant or withhold as I please, and I've forgiven you.”

Whirl relaxed marginally. “What—what was it like for you?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

“I have nightmares when I recharge away from you,” he admitted. “Not of you. Of—of them.” He'd thought himself healed and whole again, but he'd really just buried the hurt. “I think that experiencing the coding again with a better Master was, in some ways, a help. I had assumed that anyone would behave as they did with that power at their disposal, and you proved me wrong.” He smiled. “You reaffirmed a faith in mechs I had thought long lost.”

Silence settled over them like a blanket as Whirl's claw on his back stilled, and Rung steeled himself for his next admission.

“Truth be told,” he began, his spark hammering in his chest, “I have a thank you gift for you.”

He reached into the secret compartment just beneath his spark and pulled out a plain box. Whirl craned his neck to see it around his cockpit, and Rung looked at it with pursed lips.

“I'd meant to give this to you after I was confident your new claws had fully integrated,” he said, lifting up the box, “but this seems like the more appropriate time.”

Whirl accepted the gift with a narrowed optic and set it on his lap beyond Rung. Gently pulling his arm away from Rung, he used his new claw gadgets to pull open the package.

Once open, he stared at it in silence. He delicately pulled out various cogs and gears, turning them over in his claws. Rung had worked a few questions into each conversation since Whirl had woken up from death to find out exactly what parts he'd needed to create his favorite style of chronometer. He'd managed to find all of them over the course of about four planet hops.

“Some present if you're expectin' me to make you a watch,” Whirl said, his voice blank with awe, shock still pulsing through his field.

“Oh, the chronometer will be yours to do with as you like,” Rung said. He leaned back against Whirl's shoulder, relaxing. “If you _did_ want to give it to me, though, you'd have to do so with the full knowledge that I'd brag about it to everyone on the ship.”

“Damn right, you'd brag,” Whirl said, his voice still oddly hushed. “I made the best fraggin' watches in the galaxy.”

“Make,” Rung corrected. “If you want to.”

Whirl set the pieces carefully back in their packaging, wrapping his arm around Rung's waist once again. “Why're you doin' this, doc?”

And there was the million-shanix question. “Because I've found that I care about you,” he said. “Because I don't think there's a mech alive I would trust more.” His spark fluttered, and he offlined his optics. “I was—I was wondering whether, perhaps, you might want to try a relationship. With me.”

Whirl stilled.

“A tentative date at Swerve's, for example,” Rung said. “Once you're cleared to leave the medbay, of course.”

Whirl's field flooded with understanding. “This is a courting gift.”

“Which will remain yours whether or not you accept, yes.”

***

Whirl stared down at the gift as if it'd suddenly started ticking. As if it could blow up in his face.

But the collection of perfectly organized cogs and gears and other watch pieces just sat quietly. Oh, he could already see how they'd fit together, how he could _get_ them ticking, almost like bringing something to life, but he could also see that Rung was serious. This was the kind of gift that old-fashioned mechs would put together before a real, bona fide courtship. The kind that was basically a declaration of intent—the intent being to woo Whirl into being his cojunx if the courtship worked out.

Considering the situation, he might've preferred a bomb.

Not that he didn't _want_ it. Primus, just the idea that Rung would do this—would even _consider_ doing this—it made him ache all the way down to his core. He remembered all too vividly the moment Rung had exposed his spark and ground against his chest—the way his own spark had _screamed_ to reach out and join it. He'd never had anything like that happen during any frag in his past. Pit, he'd never even understood the appeal of a spark-merge.

But just remembering that moment of _wanting_ reminded him of being responsible for Rung's spark and watching it try to put itself out because of his fragging incompetence.

“You deserve better,” he said, and the words hurt all the way down to his spark. “Rung, look at me, I'm—I'm not the kinda mech who gets courted. I haven't even been asked out since—” He gestured with his free claw at his lack of face. “Mechs want somebody who can kiss back. I can't—there's nothing I can _give_ you, Rung.”

He didn't mention the times he'd managed to hookup in the Wreckers. Minimal tactile contact, helm pressed against the berth. They'd made it pretty clear what he was good for.

“Oh, we'd have no problems making out,” Rung said airily, waving a too-dismissive hand. “That's not something I'm concerned about.”

Whirl missed being able to arch an optic ridge. “Uh, kinda don't have a mouth. Kinda rules out kissing.”

“Is that a challenge, Whirl?” The way that Rung's field glittered with mischief should've made him nervous. Instead, one of his cooling fans kicked on.

“Bring it on, nerd,” Whirl said. Like a peck on the side of the helm counted as—throw Primus in the Pit, what was Rung _doing_?

What Rung seemed to be doing was working fingertips into every sensitive transformation seam that Whirl had never known he had. Charge lit up in his frame with every bit of perfectly applied friction. He looked down at Rung and practically _burned_ when he saw the look in his optics. Nothing at all like the blank, faraway look that had haunted Rung while in the grip of slave-coding—he looked _hungry_.

Whirl's engine revved of its own accord, and he floundered, not sure what to do with his claws, his arms—

And then Rung rose high enough to press kisses against Whirl's neck—on up to his audials—down the side of his helm—and Whirl _keened_ as he pressed up into the fingers digging against his armor.

“You don't have to do this,” Whirl said, more static than words as he tried to keep himself together. “You owe me scrap-all—”

Rung tipped Whirl's helm so that their optics were scant centimeters apart. “This isn't about _owing_ ,” he said. “This is about _wanting_. Do you want this, too?”

And what frag could he say to that but _yes_?

Rung's answering smile made Whirl feel as if he'd just drunk twenty liters of high grade. He wanted to do something— _anything—_ to give back, cursing his lack of mouth—

And then Rung's lips began mouthing softly at his pedipalps, and his cooling fans _roared_.

Nobody had ever touched them gently. He'd been socked in the face a few times, and he knew they were more sensitive than any other part of his frame post-empurata, but _Primus Almighty_ , he'd never even considered having them _kissed_.

Any thought of reciprocating melted along with his processor. So long as Rung kept stroking _right there_ and flicking his tongue against the very tip of the pedipalp currently—currently _in his mouth—_ he would do anything. _Anything_.

It wasn't until Rung's other hand ghosted over his throat that he noticed the litany of pleas and promises pouring from his own vocalizer.

“I will do anything you want, Primus, I'll give you twenty massages every orn and carry you piggyback all over the goddamn ship and feed y—you—!” He broke off into a staticky moan as Rung _nipped_ at his pedipalp, then went slack against the medbay berth, melting into Rung's touch. “Anything. Goddamn anything, you name it, Primus in the Pit, _anything_ —”

“Will you requisition the oil baths again?”

“If I have to punch Rodders in the goddamn face, _ye-es_ ,” Whirl's engine revved as Rung's fingers traced the spot on his neck where he'd drunk before.

“Will you make me a chronometer?” The teasing in Rung's voice and field sent charge skittering everywhere in his frame.

“A hundred-fragging-thousand watches.” Whirl panted. “I'll make you a clock shaped like a fragging model ship, _yes_ , _anything_.”

Rung laughed, and it lit Whirl's spark up like a supernova. “Will you accept my courtship?”

“Cheater,” Whirl said, but he was laughing, too. “Dirty fragging cheater, I don't—I don't have a mo— _oh_ —a mouth! I can't retaliate!”

Rung hummed against the pedipalp and withdrew just far enough to meet Whirl's optic. “Oh, you can participate.”

Still shivering from the vibrations, Whirl just whined. “God, yes, okay, frag, I'll—I'll accept the courtship but _please—_!”

Rung beamed as if the stars themselves had lit up under his armor. He leaned over to kiss the other pedipalp—the one that had only gotten a few careful strokes with a single finger—and the sensation was new and overwhelming all over again.

“Here,” Rung said, mouthing the very tip as he stroked downwards. “Go on.”

 _Go on?_ What did that mean?

He must've made some sort of confused sound—quite possibly a whimper—because Rung guided his helm so that it dipped downward, pushing the—pushing the pedipalp _into—_

Whirl shook as the soft, slick mouth welcomed him—this part of him that made everyone else recoil—and suddenly he was pushing into it of his own accord, begging Rung to stroke the other one, desperate for more contact, more affection, more _acceptance_.

“You're wonderful, Whirl,” Rung said—and the words were pleased and hungry and vibrating against something he'd thought no one would ever even want to _touch—_

And overload hit him _hard_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung is a lovestruck fool, Whirl is even worse.

Whirl jerked back so sharply that Rung nearly lost his balance. Tremors shook through Whirl's frame, and his claws clicked without rhythm or reason.

Rung timed it. He'd never seen a tactile-only overload last even _half_ as long. To be honest, Rung had only barely begun to warm up. It was simultaneously surprising, endearing, satisfying, _and_ exasperating.

“Ohh frag,” Whirl gasped, and Rung decided that _satisfying_ was the best description after all. “You're a genius.”

Rung wanted to quip about _practice_ , but he held his tongue. However he'd come by his skills, he was happy to use them in ways the Functionists would have abhorred. Especially if that meant watching a blissed-out Whirl fumble for more slurred compliments. And oh, there were quite a few.

“...like a literal actual god of 'facing, Rung, and we didn't even 'face, you are so unbelievably—how can you be so _hot_ and _good_ and—”

Ratchet appeared by the medbay berth with crossed arms and a stern look. “Praise him any more, and his helm will be bigger than the pit you two just dug yourselves into.”

“Like you've never 'faced in the medbay,” Whirl muttered.

Ratchet snorted. “I was actually talking about the fact that Rewind was in for a checkup and caught all that on video.”

Rung and Whirl went stiff, then slowly turned to scan the medbay. Sure enough, there was Rewind on the far side of the room, a red light glowing on the side of his helm.

“Isn't recording in the medbay a breach of patient confidentiality?” Rung asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Yes,” Ratchet said. “Except I told Whirl before you arrived that he's no longer a patient and is free to go anytime. He opted to wait here to see you.”

Rung looked up at Whirl with wide optics. “He didn't mention.”

“I—” Whirl reset his vocalizer. “I kinda. Forgot. When I saw your face.”

Rung put his helm in his hands to hide the fact that he was fighting giggles. That was the most absurdly sweet thing anyone had ever told him.

“See, this is exactly why you've got no business courting me.” Whirl groaned and flopped back against the berth. “Fraggin'— _frag_.”

Rung's optics rose to focus on Rewind. “And what are you planning to do with this footage?”

“I was just gonna record the cuddling and stuff,” Rewind said, a little hesitant. “I didn't know Whirl _cuddled_. It was cute.”

The high, embarrassed whine that wound its way out of Whirl's vocalizer could probably have been called cute, too, but Rung wasn't about to mention it. “If you share that footage with anyone, I'll be forced to share the audio file I have from—” He submitted a specific time, date, and ship location over a private frequency and smiled blandly as Rewind's recording light clicked off. “I'm afraid that I'd left my thumb recorder running without realizing and never got around to deleting it.”

Ratchet and Whirl looked at Rung as if they'd never seen him before. Rewind looked horrifically embarrassed. He hadn't done anything _incriminating_ , per se, but roleplaying as Rodimus and Minimus Ambus on Ultra Magnus's desk would certainly not go over well with the second-in-command. Even if Rodimus would surely be flattered by the idea.

“I'll trade the video for the audio,” Rewind said suddenly. “Domey was _on it_ that night.”

Rung smiled. “Come by my office later, and we can negotiate. For now, however, I think it's high time that Whirl and I got a little change of scenery. If you'll excuse us.”

Nothing but dignity shone in Rung's posture as he rose. He collected the watch parts as well as his half-finished ship before turning back to look at Whirl, who was still frozen and staring at him from the berth.

“My habsuite or yours?” Rung asked, and Ratchet threw his hands in the air and turned back to Rewind.

“You're serious,” Whirl said, his yellow optic probing Rung with obvious disbelief. “Haven't I fragged things up enough as it is? Why are you still—still _interested_?”

“As I said, I find that I care rather a lot about you,” Rung said, his face softening with affection at the nervous cant of Whirl's shoulders. “And I really would like to talk this over and give it a try. So the question stands: my habsuite or yours?”

“I, uh,” Whirl hesitated, looking down at the box of watch parts in Rung's arms. “We could drop that off at my place and—and maybe try that date at Swerve's?” His voice rose nervously. “If you still wanna try that, I mean.”

Rung's spark warmed, melting a little of the icy tension that had filled him when they'd been caught. “I'd like that very much.”

He extended a hand to Whirl, who stared at it for a full klik before carefully—and gently, so gently—placing his claw on it. Rung beamed up at him and wrapped his fingers around the blunt edge, leading Whirl toward the medbay's exit. Whirl took smaller steps than usual, matching his pace to Rung's, and they walked hand-in-claw down the halls of the ship.

“They're gonna see,” Whirl said quietly. His EM field swirled with nervousness—but there was some hopeful excitement there, too.

“I hope so.” Rung set his chin at a defiant angle, then sent a sidelong grin up at Whirl. “How are you feeling?”

Whirl's optic fixed on their interlinked hands. “I haven't been on a date in about five million years.”

“I've never been on a date at all,” Rung said. He rubbed his thumb against Whirl's claw in a reassuring circle. “I'm looking forward to my first.”

Embarrassed heat flushed Whirl's plating once again, and Rung smiled up at him. Out of the corner of his optic, he could see that nearly every mech they passed was doing a double-take upon seeing them, but Whirl didn't so much as glance at them. His laser-focus could be intimidating—even terrifying—but this was somehow softer.

Whirl hesitated just outside his habsuite, his free claw hovering over the keypad. “Hey, you should probably memorize the passkey. In case you need me or something.”

Unfettered access to Whirl's only private space—that was no light gift. “Thank you.”

Rung dutifully memorized the code as Whirl punched it in; if they got drunk at Swerve's, he might need it to get Whirl safely back to bed.

And then the door closed behind them, and the air around their joined hands seemed to crackle. Whirl tensed, but didn't let go.

“I think we've gotta talk ground rules,” Whirl said. “I—I don't really know what I'm doin', here. I don't wanna frag this up.”

Rung squeezed his hand reassuringly before releasing it. He carefully unpacked the ship and the watch parts, setting them aside and out of the way. “Where would you like to begin?” he asked. “I confess that I don't have very much experience of my own.”

“Well, let's start with the basics. What should I call you?”

Rung turned back to look at him, arching one optic ridge. “Please tell me you know my name.”

“Ruuung,” Whirl said, drawing it out into a whine. “You know what I mean!”

At this, he frowned. “I'm afraid I don't, actually.”

“Like—if people start puttin' the moves on you.” Whirl gestured rather _articulately_ to define those moves. “What do I say? Back off, he's my boyfriend? I'm courting him? He's my—” He hesitated. “Wait, are we doing this exclusive-like? It's cool if you don't _want_ this to be exclusive—”

Rung couldn't help it—he laughed, startling Whirl off-track. “Oh, I see what you mean. I'm not particularly interested in anyone else at the moment, but I'd hardly mind sharing you.”

Whirl snorted. “Yeah, because hotties are totally banging down my door.”

“We could bang _against_ your door,” Rung said lightly. “Would that be close enough?”

The stream of static that burst from Whirl's vocalizer was extremely gratifying. “Doc! I'm tryin' to have a serious conversation here, and it's hard enough with—with—” He gestured incoherently at Rung. “—what with you being hot enough to melt tungsten!”

The utter sincerity in Whirl's voice and field made Rung feel lighter than he had in vorns. “Forgive me,” he said, reaching out to anchor himself against Whirl’s arm. “I haven’t--” How to phrase this delicately? “Since the Functionists. I--I haven’t.”

Whirl stiffened. “Haven’t--haven’t what?”

Rung gestured vaguely at the air between them. “I haven’t trusted anyone enough to actually interface.”

“For--for _how many_ millions of years?”

Rung drew back in sudden embarrassment, and Whirl immediately teeked of guilt.

“Doc--Rung,” he corrected. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just.” He scratched awkwardly at the back of his helm. “You just deserve better. I’m not the best frag on a good day, and I’ve never dealt with any of this relationship mumbo jumbo.”

“Well, I guess that gives us both a clean slate to build from.”

“And I ain’t built anything in four million years, either.”

“Nonsense. You and I have almost finished a model ship together! That’s got to count for something.”

“Well, you were helping me with that.”

Rung smiled. “And we’ll be helping each other with this.”

Whirl groaned, holding a claw up to his forehelm in a gesture so dramatic it deserved an award. “Enough with the mush already! Please, you’re killin’ me, here!”

The temptation to make a comment about that--about how Whirl had come _very_ close to dying, and it’d been his _own_ doing--faded more quickly than it would have even a decaorn previously. Instead, Rung nodded toward the berth.

“All right, all right. Let’s have this talk.” He sprawled back against the berth, arms wide and ready to embrace Whirl. When Whirl instead sat perched on the very edge of the bed, he scooted close. “Here’s a boundary,” he said. “Casual physical contact. Would you like me to rest my head on your lap?”

“Only if you wanna,” Whirl said, but that same nervous hope from before glowed in his field, condensing to a warm, pleasant sensation when Rung followed through. “Where should I put my claws?”

“Hmm.” Rung shuttered his optics and relaxed against Whirl. His legs might be spindly, but the EM field was reassuringly familiar and immensely comforting. “You’re welcome to pet my helm, my side, or my back.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to go straight for your aft,” Whirl muttered.

“You are _also_ welcome to touch my aft if you would like.” How long had it been since his own voice sounded so cheerful and carefree? He almost didn’t recognize himself. “Now, you asked what we should call one another. I am perfectly happy to use any term of endearment you would like.”

“Term of--you mean like a pet name?”

“Yes.”

Whirl went silent for a long moment, absently stroking Rung’s helm. He felt _safe_ and _welcome_ and--and _whole_ again. Even if the code were to come back, he would be well cared for. He would never face the nightmare of his life at the hands of the Functionists again.

“I, uh.” Whirl’s field spun with a heady mix of embarrassment and hope and happiness and an extra helping of embarrassment. “I--I kinda like the idea of being called treasure?”

His voice sounded so small and afraid that Rung had to wonder when he’d last felt valued. “My treasure, then,” Rung said. “If you’ll be mine.”

“You don’t want somebody like me,” Whirl said, and resignation edged around his EM field, herding away the desperate hope. “Give it a few days, okay? But--you asked, so I answered. You can call me anything you want, though. I don’t care.”

Rung rolled onto his back to look up at Whirl, offering his most sincere smile. “Whether or not I call you mine, you’re still a treasure.”

As if on cue, Whirl’s cooling fans clicked on, and the armor beneath Rung’s helm heated. “Dammit, doc,” he said, covering his optic with one claw. “You--you’re cheating again!”

“For myself, I think I like my name best.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to be so soft and tentative--he’d hoped to make it a joke.

Whirl drew the claw away from his optic, which had narrowed to a mischievous slit. “I could go a hundred vorns among the greatest poets and wordsmiths and still say no word was sweeter than _Rung_ ,” Whirl said--and of course Rung remembered that line, _of course_ , his hands had shaken when he’d read it aloud to Whirl, but how had he--how had he _known_ \--?

Rung’s own cooling fans kicked on, and he twisted sideways to tuck himself beneath Whirl’s cockpit and cover his burning face.

“Aw, Rung, you don’t gotta hide,” Whirl said, tracing a too-gentle claw down Rung’s spinal strut. “We got so much left to talk about.”

Rung opened his mouth to answer, but only static came out.

“Aww, that’s no fair.” Whirl’s field practically burned with amusement and delight. “Or perhaps it is not the word that I adore so much as its meaning,” he said, kneading at the sensitive wires at Rung’s hips. “The name of one so dear and so sweet could only ever be beautiful. Rung.” He didn’t have lips to shape the sound, but he gave it weight and--and something like _love_ just with his emphasis and those blasted gentle claws. “Rung, Rung, _Rung_. Forever. It will never have another meaning--not to me.”

Another line he’d loved. A line with his own name substituted once again for the one belonging to the mech who inevitably got swept off his feet.

They’d told him he was worthless and useless and meaningless, and here Whirl was saying he was his own meaning. Something beautiful and cherished and--and--

He couldn’t help it as a high-pitched keen built up in the back of his throat. It wasn’t a sob--or he didn’t mean it to be one--but his very spark ached.

“Hey--hey, it’s okay.” The claw at his waist stilled. “I didn’t mean to upset ya. I’ll cut it out.”

Rung laughed and buried his face against Whirl’s stomach, wrapping his arms tight against his waist. He wasn’t close enough--couldn’t get close enough. “Thank you,” he managed--static blurring the words. “That--”

There really weren’t words for it. Whirl had noticed--and listened--and _remembered_.

“Thank you,” he said again, hoping the words carried everything he felt and couldn’t express. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

***

Whirl had only meant to tease him a little--get him kinda flustered, make him blush like he’d done back in the medbay--but he’d underestimated the power of the romance novel, clearly. Instead of a little embarrassment, he’d gotten a lapful of sweetspark so touched that he was near tears. Scrap. Rung was _fragging adorable_. A sap, sure, but _fragging adorable_. Quite possibly the cutest bot in the galaxy. Almost definitely the best bot in the galaxy by pretty much any standard.

Whirl resolved to get Rung to read him more of those romance novels in their downtime. If two lines had reduced him to static and spark-felt gratitude, a full paragraph of romancin’ might snap him out of it if--well, if something happened.

“Okay, so we got your terms of endearment straightened out,” Whirl said, pushing away any thought of something happening to Rung, because _frag_ if the little guy hadn’t been put through enough already. “What’re we going to tell everybody else? If we’re hittin’ up Swerve’s tonight, we’d better be ready for twenty questions, because they like gossip more than they like high-grade.”

Rung pressed a soft and totally distracting kiss against Whirl’s stomach instead of answering.

“Rung, I said I wanna do this _right_ ,” Whirl pleaded. He had a nagging suspicion that Rung was just giving him what he thought he wanted--and ‘facing sounded awesome, sure, but he wanted the mushy stuff, too. Not that he was gonna admit to that without being starsabered.

“I’d like to tell everyone that I’m courting you,” Rung said. “That way they know I’m unavailable, but anyone else who might entertain an interest in courting you would have the opportunity to make their suit.”

“I accepted your courtship, ya goof.” Whirl snorted. “Remember? I’m not gonna go acceptin’ anybody else’s suits no matter how nice they make ‘em anyhow.”

Rung stilled. “Those circumstances were hardly conducive to rational thought. I’d like to give you a little more time to make that decision.”

Whirl groaned and flopped back on the berth. “You like cuddling, right? Let’s cuddle.” This conversation seemed like it’d take longer than he’d expected; they might as well get comfortable.

Rung repositioned to tuck himself against Whirl’s side, where he fit better than he had any right to.

Whirl dipped his helm downward to meet Rung’s optics and braced himself. “Ya got that thumb recorder going? Because I’m only gonna say this once.” He reset his vocalizer three times, hoping the words would make themselves work. Frag, this was harder than he expected. Maybe if he built up to it. “You’ve been through more scrap than you deserve. Nobody’s gonna disagree with me on that.” If they tried, he’d rip out their vocalizers. “But it’s not like this is some kinda contest where the most fragged-up bot gets some reward to make up for it. Nothing’s gonna make up for it. I’m not--frag.” He was getting _further_ from his point. Nice going, Whirl. “What I’m saying is that you had the right idea earlier. It’s not about owing--it’s about wanting. And I want this.” He gestured at Rung. “I want _you_ , Rung.”

The disbelief in Rung’s field made his spark seize up.

“You--you’re too fragging _good_.” Whirl hugged him closer, trying to press reassurance and sincerity through his field. “A mech holds a gun to your head and rips out your thumb, and you just tell him it’s gonna be okay. Another one shoots you in the helm, and you just make a couple of snide comments about his aim! Not even _to_ him. It’s ridiculous.”

Still not enough--Rung’s field stayed tense and close to his frame.

“And you get this cute little smile when you’re all worked up about ships, you know that? It should be fraggin’ illegal to look that cute. And don’t get me _started_ on how unfair it is that you can just play off some kinda sexy line and get my fans going while you’re just _smirking_ \--oh yeah, you think I haven’t noticed that smirk? I damn well noticed.”

There--a laugh! He was on the right track.

“And your voice gets all husky when you read the really good lines in books--and you take off your glasses when you’re getting sentimental and serious and scrap, and it’s just like a suckerpunch to the _spark_ , Rung, I can’t take that kinda cute. Here I am, parading around and calling myself unvincible, and you just gotta strut in and boom!” He waved a claw in the air above them. “Just-- _boom_! There goes everything! The unvincible Whirl--the one with _no known weaknesses_ \--suddenly can’t walk in a straight line because oh look, there’s the fraggin’ cutest and sweetest bot in the galaxy smiling, and where are my pedes?”

He sure hoped nobody had installed hidden cameras in his habsuite, because he would probably offline with embarrassment as soon as he figured out how to shut off his vocalizer.

“And you’re worried about _me_ changin’ my mind? Not fragging likely!” Build-up ready, he went ahead and took the plunge. “I _care_ about you, Rung. Do you know how--how _hard_ that is? You’re this fraggin’ perfect mech, and I’m just happy to be along for the ride, wasn’t even mad when I figured you’d wanna boot me from the ship, and then you go and start _courting_ me, and of-fraggin’-course I’m gonna say yes! Primus, Rung, I can’t say anything _but_ yes!”

He manually offlined his vocalizer before it could give anything else away. Rung’s field flamed with half a dozen giddy emotions, which helped push back the horrible tide of embarrassment threatening to crush Whirl.

“So when you say you want to do this right…?”

Oh, great. His vocalizer hissed with embarrassed static as he onlined it again. “I mean I’m courtin’ you, too, you aft. Not because I wanna frag you through the wall,” although he _did_ , he _really really did_ , “but because I wanna--I wanna be mushy with you.”

And wasn’t that the most humiliating admission he’d ever made?

“Oh, Whirl,” Rung said, and his voice was more tender than Whirl had ever heard it. “You’re a treasure beyond all words.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung and Whirl go on a date, the situation is drastically misunderstood.

It almost seemed pointless to rehearse his apology. Swerve had seen Rung exactly once since he’d shot him in the head, and he’d been about ready to keel over from starvation.

“ _Fuel levels at three percent.” Rung hadn’t sounded anything like himself; he’d sounded like he needed Ratchet pronto. “Defragmentation protocols uninitiated for twelve orns.”_

“ _Twelve--” Rung had cringed away from Whirl in a way that made Swerve’s tanks roil. “You haven’t recharged since I--”_

Since he _what_? That had been the question on everyone’s vocal synthesizer ever since. Swerve had tried to get an answer out of him, but nope; the whine of those guns onlining had sent him scurrying like the coward he was.

And then Whirl had hauled Rung out of there and locked him up in Whirl’s habsuite for more than a decaorn, and then Rung had just--hidden. Nobody knew why he’d tucked himself away at Whirl’s side, but, _oh_ , the rumors were juicy.

“I heard him on the comm with Ratch the next morning,” one informant had said. “Said Rung was too sore to move. Basically immobile.”

“And now he’s following Whirl around like a cyberkitten,” Skids had pointed out. He’d been pretty sloshed at the time, and concern had been everywhere in his EM field. “You don’t think he dug up some dirt on Chromedome and got him to…?”

He hadn’t been able to finish the thought, but he hadn’t needed to; Chromedome had been looking exhausted and hollow since Rung’s disappearance, and it didn’t take a superlearner to put dots together. Mnemosurgery always _did_ do a number on the surgeon, after all.

“He wouldn’t even need dirt,” someone else had pointed out. “He saved Rewind’s life. And I _saw_ Chromedome reading up on some obscure mnemosurgery stuff--he’s been asking half the ship about experience with shadowplay-induced slavery.”

Five other mechs corroborated this, and nobody doubted for a second that Chromedome would do anything--quite literally _anything_ \--to keep Rewind safe. What would Rung mean to him? If they’d ever so much as spoken, nobody could remember it. Whirl, on the other hand, had gotten a hug and a loud, ‘You saved two lives today.’ How many times had he promised Rewind he’d stopped injecting, and how many times had he injected anyway? How easily could he justify it?

“Chromedome’s an aft, but he’s not that kind of aft,” Brainstorm had insisted--not the strongest endorsement. “Y’know, I heard that helicopters have this mating ritual.”

That’d gotten some interest; everyone had wanted to hear the sordid details involved in mate abduction. It fit the timeline, but all of them felt queasy walking by Whirl’s door after that, listening for any sign they should break in and jump to the rescue. Knowing what the abduction implied. Knowing that Whirl probably had ways to mute Rung anyway if he wanted.

Swerve hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but once he’d heard screaming, and he’d just run. Hadn’t even told Red, who was worried sick about Rung. Couldn’t bear to.

“It doesn’t even need to be that complicated,” someone had pointed out. It’d been decaorns; Rung showed no sign of leaving. “Rung’s an old-fashioned mech. If Whirl took advantage of him--” while he was starved and then drunk on Swerve’s own high-grade “--he’d probably be honor-bound to court him.”

Dozens of rumors swarmed the bar. Overcharged mechs had wild imaginations. A plastered Rodimus had even suggested _slave-coding_ as a culprit before Ratchet literally knocked some sense into him.

So the sudden, stunned silence when Whirl and Rung walked in--arms linked, Rung’s little head resting against Whirl--really wasn’t much of a surprise.

[[Red? Come in, Red,]] Swerve commed. [[I know you think that comms interfere with brainwaves but _come in already_. This is important!]]

Silence. It figured.

[[Red, _Whirl brought Rung to the bar_.]]

After a split second, he got an affirmative ping in response--more than he’d ever gotten from Red over comms. They were roommates; Red usually expected him to wait until he’d wrapped up and gone back to the habsuite to catch him up on stuff. He never answered Swerve’s comms.

[[I’m on my way.]]

Swerve would’ve leapt out of his plating at the text--five layers of encryption using metallurgy references only Swerve could decode--but he was too busy cracking a wide, fake grin at the, uh, happy couple.

“What can I do you for?” It was a real effort to keep his voice cheery and an even bigger effort to keep from immediately examining Rung for signs of harm.

“I’d like one of those fizzy orange drinks,” Rung said. “Did you ever name them?”

“You’re the only one who orders ‘em,” Swerve said, not mentioning that Rung hadn’t been by in months, and what was the point of naming a drink for somebody who’d been kidnapped and wouldn’t be coming back? “You can name it whatever you want.”

“Hmm.” Rung looked up at Whirl with the most besotted optics Swerve had ever seen. “You have any ideas, treasure?”

The entire bar gaped. About half of them were mouthing _treasure_ incredulously. Rung didn’t look at them, and Whirl just puffed out his plating. “The brightspark. Because you’re my brightspark.”

It was--Swerve couldn’t decide what it was. He’d walked into some bizarro version of his own bar. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“The brightspark, then,” Rung said, his voice as calm and sweet as if he’d never expected another answer. As if _of course_ Whirl would say something cheesy. _Of course_ Whirl would casually call him pet names. “I’d like one of those.”

“Put it on _my_ tab,” Whirl said, unhooking their arms just long enough to reach out and pull Rung flush against him. The gesture seemed uncomfortably possessive. “And I’ll have that bubbly purple whatchamacallit.”

“Yeah,” Swerve said. The words rang in the silent room. “Yeah, sure. Coming, uh, coming right up.”

Rung flashed him a sunny smile before Whirl steered him away to one of the more private booths in back. Helms turned to watch them, but they seemed absorbed in a conversation about--about _model ships_?

Swerve dragged Skids down to his height. “Pinch me so I know this isn’t weird recharge feedback.”

Skids obliged.

“Fraggin’ Pit.” Swerve’s servos shook as he started mixing the drinks. [[Red, things are really weird over here. _Get your aft in here._ ]]

***

“Hey, Rung, I know we both just got high-grade, but is that really a good idea?” Whirl tapped the cube of bubbly purple engex. “Like, I kinda want you to have full access to your processor in case something--” He clicked his claw.

Rung lowered his voice. “In case something triggers me?” When Whirl nodded, a surge of affection rushed through him. He reached out to rest a hand on Whirl’s claw, stilling it. “One glass won’t get me overcharged. We can go back to mid-grade after this if you’re still concerned.”

“I just, y’know. Wanna make sure you’re good, y’know?”

“Mid-grade, then.” He squeezed Whirl’s claw, hoping to impress the way he felt touched by the thoughtfulness and consideration through his EM field.

“Hey, Doc! Haven’t seen you in forever.”

Rung arched an optic ridge at Skids. “Yes, I suppose it has been quite some time.” He hesitated. “I would love to catch up another time, but I’m otherwise engaged at the moment.”

The word _engaged_ lit up Whirl’s field like a hot spot, and Rung smiled at him.

“No time for the rest of your patients, Doc?”

“Oh, Whirl’s no longer my patient!” Rung said, taken aback. “We no longer have a professional relationship. I assure you that no regulations are being broken.” Ah, of course--he hadn’t formally announced it. “I’m courting him, you see.” He gave Whirl his warmest, most reassuring smile. “This is our first _real_ date.”

Rung had to force back a laugh as Whirl’s cooling fans came online and abruptly switched off. Skids looked a little horrified.

“Doc, we haven’t talked for like two months. Can’t you raincheck this... _date_?”

Something about the way he said _date_ made Rung uneasy, but Whirl’s EM field was so full of affection and sweetness that it seemed a little irrelevant. He didn’t even look away. “I’m afraid not.”

“Can you at least say where you were? I’ve been worried sick.”

Rung cringed. Of course--they’d planned what to say about their relationship, but what about his time under the grip of the slave-coding? He shot a nervous, apologetic look at Whirl and smiled up at Skids. “Oh, it’s a long story. I’ll have to tell it some other time.”

Skids teeked of more concern than Rung could fathom. “Right. If you’re sure.”

Rung turned back to Whirl, who sent him a supportive glyph over private comms. [[You can raincheck if you wanna.]]

[[That would hardly be fair to you.]]

Whirl narrowed his optic, and Rung looked away, suddenly embarrassed. A part of him _did_ want to catch up with the acquaintances he’d neglected over the last few months, but the rest of him wanted to have a nice night out with Whirl.

“Rung, if you sit on my lap, there’ll be room for Skids,” Whirl said. “C’mere.”

He’d grown rather fond of close contact with Whirl, so the suggestion had more than enough appeal to remove any trace of hesitation. “Of course.”

“I want in on this party, too,” Swerve called. A general murmur of agreement rippled through the bar--which seemed somewhat quieter than Rung had remembered, but it had been a few months, and perhaps it was a slow night.

“I guess we could sit at a larger table?” Rung said, looking at Whirl hesitantly.

“Sure, why not?” Whirl scooped Rung up. “Somebody grab my drink.”

It wasn’t the most dignified way to travel, but considering the crowd pressing in on them, Rung could hardly blame Whirl for the sudden surge of protectiveness. Still, he hid his blush by pressing his face against Whirl’s cockpit.

When they settled down at the table--five tables pushed together, in fact, seating basically every mech in the bar--Rung wrapped his arm around Whirl’s waist and stroked his lower back soothingly. He shuddered when Whirl reciprocated in kind, dragging a gentle claw down his spinal strut.

The crowd gaped at them, and Rung froze. “So how have all of you been?”

There was a dismissive murmur in response; no one seemed prepared to speak.

“He asked how you’ve been,” Whirl said, and Rung flinched at the tone--it’d been months since he’d heard Whirl’s voice so caustic. The claw on his back tensed.

“Fine!” the mechs chorused, a few rising half out of their seats. “Yeah, we’re--we’re great!”

When Whirl snapped, bots listened. Rung shook his head and tried not to sigh.

“Sweetspark,” he said, keeping his voice low. A request to play nice--if they were going to be a spectacle, it might as well be for mooning over one another, not threatening the other bots.

Whirl relaxed, running his claw along Rung’s spinal strut again. He tweaked a bundle of wires as Whirl’s hip in retaliation, hiding a grin against Whirl’s chest when his cooling fans switched on.

“You keep that up and I’m not gonna be able to wait ‘til we’re back in our habsuite,” Whirl said, putting a joking growl in his voice.

It was a real struggle to keep from choking on laughter; his shoulders shook as he kept it muted. Whirl was the one who’d been doing all the waiting, but the jibe wasn’t a sting--it was a reminder, in his own way, that Whirl actually _would_ wait until Rung was ready.

“Uh,” Swerve said, jolting Rung out of his daze. “You all right over there?”

He’d once been so skilled at hiding his laughter, but he felt giggly and giddy. “Oh, yes, I’m perfectly all right.”

Swerve looked skeptical; Rung suspected they were about half a klik away from telling the two of them to go get a room.

Or perhaps, given the fear in the crowd’s densely packed EM fields, they thought he and Whirl were actually going to go at it right on the table. And though it wouldn’t have been Rung’s first time doing that--

He froze as he remembered the feeling of cold glass beneath his cheek, hands ripping the plating from his back, an order keeping him _still_ and _silent_ and _compliant_ even as his entire frame burned with pain. They’d turned him on his back when he was bare--the energon running down his back had been so slick. Forty or more mechs--just like this table, just like this--all of them grabbing at his spark--

“Shh, shh,” Whirl murmured, stroking his back. “Swerve, get him some midgrade.”

“Midgrade?”

“I want him fully aware, okay?” Whirl narrowed his optics at them, squeezing Rung tight against the reassuring pulse of his EM field. The touch anchored him; he could see the present again. The energon-slicked table was gone. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Rung raised a shaky hand to remove his glasses before they could trap cleaning fluid and make his optics spark. Whirl took them from him and dropped them into subspace.

It helped for the faces to be blurry and indistinct. The lighting was warmer than it had been in that bar. The EM fields weren’t choked with lust. He was safe with Whirl. Whirl would keep him safe, like he’d done the entire time the coding had gripped him.

“Hey, you might be holding him a little tight there--”

“No!” Rung wasn’t sure how he and Whirl had shouted in unison, but it startled Skids back into his seat. Rung reset his vocalizer and lowered the hand he’d raised in objection. “No, no, I’m perfectly fine. Still a little--” He hesitated and glanced at Whirl, searching for a word that could summarize what he’d been through. “--a little out of sorts,” he said.

“And he was expecting a date, not an interrogation,” Whirl said, flaring his plating again. The crowd seemed to be exchanging looks, but, without glasses, it was comfortably vague. Rung didn’t have to worry about their expressions. Whirl had him.

Not forty mechs he knew but didn’t _know_. Not forty mechs who would probably turn him outside in if they had the power.

“I think I’d actually prefer to catch up with you one on one,” Rung said, biting back humiliation at the shaking in his voice. “If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, brightspark, I got you.” Whirl scooped him up again, voice tender and gentle and _safe_ , so _safe_. “I think you guys can have your chat later. He’s mine tonight.” He lifted his helm to face the crowd, and his field flared with challenge as his voice hardened. “Got it?”

Rung leaned against Whirl and relaxed, muscles going slack with relief. [[Thank you, treasure. I think I underestimated how...taxing it would be to face everyone at once.]]

[[Wanna go back to the habsuite?]]

[[No, no,]] Rung shook his head as Whirl settled him so that he was safely buffered by a wall on one side and Whirl on his other. [[Let’s have our date.]]

***

Red Alert did not hide the fact that he was staring. Whirl had Rung practically pinned against the wall, unquestionably trapped. From time to time, Whirl would lift the cube of engex to Rung’s lips and force him to drink.

He’d kept up with the rumors. Though he’d used the security camera footage to verify what he could, there had been large gaps in his data. The habsuites and offices had cameras without sound--as they’d discovered during the hostage situation--but he’d only gotten one night of footage with Rung sobbing at Whirl’s pedes and screaming in pain before the camera had been disabled.

The next morning, Rung and Whirl _had_ left the habsuite to go into the captain’s washracks. Ratchet had mentioned he would be recording and personally supervising the footage that resulted, which had made sense at the time--and then he’d refused to share the video.

“ _It’s nothing you need to see,”_ Ratchet had told him, unable to meet his optics. _“High command’s got it under control.”_

He’d picked apart that sentence for orns. It wasn’t until the rumor about helicopter mating rituals had reached him that he realized they _wouldn’t_ tell him. Rung would specifically tell them to keep it from his patients--especially Red Alert. They would have to respect his privacy.

Knowing couldn’t be worse than imagining, could it? It gnawed at Red Alert’s spark. Rung was the only mech he could trust, and he’d done _nothing_. High command had done _nothing_.

He was watching Whirl push more engex into Rung, one deadly claw tipping that delicate chin up, and he was _still doing nothing._

Rung looked as calm as he always had, but Red Alert had seen him calmly talk to Fortress Maximus with a gun to his head. He lifted a glass for Whirl to drink from with that smile like sunshine, and Red Alert’s spark clenched.

He’d done extensive background checks on everyone who’d been permitted on the ship; he wouldn’t have permitted Whirl on board if he’d had a say, but medics wouldn’t leave a wounded bot, and then they were galaxies away from home with nowhere to dump him.

When Whirl had saved Rewind, it had seemed promising. A step forward. In light of Rung’s change of spark and Chromedome’s _talents_ , however… Well, Whirl was many things, but nobody who’d spoken to him for any length of time could deny he was canny. An excuse to save Rewind when he’d been the one outside the blast doors--when he himself would have been under suspicion for treachery--would have diverted attention and earned him a too-valuable favor.

The scars wouldn’t be visible under normal lighting, of course, but Red Alert continued to stare.

“Swerve,” he said, knowing the bot would hear him even over the nervous chatter of the bar. No one felt at ease tonight.

“What’s up, Red?”

“Think you can rig up some UV lights in here?”

Swerve’s optics narrowed. He was sharper than most bots gave him credit for, and he was friends with Rewind. Of course he knew what Red Alert was getting at.

“Yeah, I think I could,” Swerve said, casting a slow, solemn look over at Whirl and Rung. Whirl was raking those deadly claws along Rung’s side, pinching cables at his waist and provoking a strut-deep shiver in the poor mech. “I think I _will_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung is used to taking things fast, Whirl goes torturously slow.

“What’s that? You wanna go for a ride on the whirlybird?”

Rung fought down laughter as Whirl swept him off his feet and started hauling him toward the exit. He only kept it muted long enough to bury his face in the crook of Whirl’s neck, pressing himself flush against the warmed plating of his cockpit. Their date had started off a bit rocky, but everyone had left them to their own devices for the next several joors, and Rung was practically crackling with charge.

“Oh, yes, I think I _would_ like a ride,” Rung said, keeping his voice low. He pressed a hidden kiss to the spot he’d once bitten, and Whirl’s cooling fans clicked on with a roar. Rung’s weren’t long in following--they’d barely escaped Swerve’s before his manual override stopped working.

He could feel the sparkpulse of his courtmate just beyond the glass, straining to reach his. His entire frame warmed at the proximity, and he felt giddy and weightless in Whirl’s arms. He pressed another kiss to Whirl’s throat, then another, and giggling overtook him again.

“You sure you’re not overcharged, Rung?” Whirl asked, keying in the code with his free claw. “If Swerve was slipping you high-grade--”

“The only kind of charge I’ve got is the kind I plan on sharing,” Rung said, then strained upward to kiss the side of Whirl’s helm.

“Primus, Rung, you can’t just--” Whirl scrambled to get the door open and got them inside in a hurry. “My cooling fans are overheating!”

“I should take care of your charge, then,” Rung said, grinning, but Whirl hesitated just shy of setting him on the berth.

“You know that I’m cool just cuddling, right?” Whirl said. “I don’t care about the charge. I don’t need to ‘face just because we went on a date.”

Rung vented hard and wriggled free to splay himself out on the berth. “I can see the charge between your transformation seams,” he said. “And you yourself said that your cooling fans can’t go any higher.”

He arched his back to entice Whirl, whose optic immediately offlined. He let out a shuddering vent before he spoke, but his voice was still laced with static. “Rung, I’m serious,” he pleaded. “I’m not gonna frag you unless I’m one hundred fifty thousand percent sure that you’re doing it because _you_ want to frag. Okay? This is important to me.”

A gentle warmth flooded Rung’s spark, pushing back the giddy laughter. “I want you,” he said. “Treasure, darling, sweetspark, I want you _so badly_.”

Whirl’s cooling fans overtaxed themselves into a protracted stutter, as if caught on the very notion. When his optic onlined again, the intensity of it made Rung shiver. He held out his arms in welcome, and Whirl’s claws slipped beneath him, drawing him up against his side as Whirl gently--carefully--settled his cockpit across Rung’s chest.

It was enclosed and safe and warm and not _nearly_ enough pressure, not _nearly_ enough contact. Rung caught the whine building in the back of his voxcoder too late; he twisted his face sideways to muffle it against the berth instead. He wasn’t used to _gentle_. He wasn’t used to _sweet_. When Whirl slowly traced the line of his cheek with one claw, Rung could have sobbed.

“Tell me what you want, Rung,” Whirl said.

“ _You_.” Rung’s voice had already gone ragged with static.

Whirl huffed and delicately flicked one of Rung’s antennae. “Gonna have to be a _little_ more specific than that.”

He’d never had the choice offered freely. He’d never been allowed to say no. The enormity of the possibilities before them nearly overwhelmed him.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice too small. “I don’t know what I want. I just want _you_.”

“Well, you’ve got me.” Whirl nuzzled the top of his helm. “Step one, check! Time for step two.”

“Step two?”

“ _How_ do you want me?”

Rung’s cooling fans roared. “You-- _you_ \--” He couldn’t put words to it. He snaked a hand over and pinched at a sensitive junction between Whirl’s arm and rotors. “That’s _cheating_. You aren’t allowed to--” To what? He pinched again and dragged himself flush against Whirl, wrapping his legs around his hips. “You aren’t allowed to be so _attractive_.”

Whirl puffed out his plating, his EM field flaring with pride and delight. “My, how the tables have turned!”

“My wonder, my joy, my love.” Rung pressed a cheek against the slightly steamed windshield of Whirl’s cockpit. “Please, I beg you, frag me through the berth.”

“Aww, you don’t like it sweet and slow?” Whirl said, running a claw in a feather-light line up Rung’s side. “I could check you over bit by bit, find all your sweet spots. Figure out what you like.”

Rung whimpered, and he wouldn’t even have been ashamed to admit it. For all his experience with interfacing, this was entirely new to him--entirely too tender. His very frame expected to be used. To be taken.

Instead, Whirl pulled back and started gently massaging his knotted wires and tense transformation seams, charge licking its way up his claws. Rung vented sharply as the tension left him--he hadn’t even noticed the stress settled beneath his plating. The absence was enough that he felt melted and strutless.

“Just like that,” Whirl murmured. “Good, good.”

Even without the coding to soothe, some deep, coiled part of his mind relaxed at the words. He let himself embrace the soft, sweet press of Whirl’s field--reassured himself that Whirl was actually _satisfied_ with this absurd pace. Whirl ran a claw against the sensitive plating beneath his spark chamber, and Rung arched up into the touch.

“Mm, so that’s a good spot?” Whirl asked.

“Yes, _yes_.” He wanted _more_. “Please can-- _please_ can you--”

“More?”

Rung nodded at once, voxcoder failing him. When Whirl pressed down, he arched upward into the touch, and then Whirl gently rubbed the spot, and he collapsed, melting, arousal pooling hot beneath Whirl’s claw.

“Very good spot,” Whirl decided, his voice thick with approval. His other claw transformed, extending the tools he’d used to do such fine craftswork. He used a soft-tipped brush to trace along the inner seam of Rung’s thigh and on up to the spot at his hip that Whirl had massaged to reassure him so many times. The light touch felt like fire, almost unbearable--intolerable--he couldn’t endure it and survive--

Between his static-ridden vocalizer and their combined fans, he didn’t hear Whirl’s cockpit transform back out of the way. His optics had offlined--unable to handle so much sensory input--but he felt warmth blazing above him.

“Scrap, sorry.” Whirl’s voice sounded choked. He started to pull a claw back, and Rung grabbed at it, sobbing. “Rung, I just gotta close--fragging--”

Rung onlined his optics and saw Whirl’s spark glittering like gold not a hand’s span from his chest. Only the frustratingly gentle claw digging against his chest kept him from immediately parting the plating above his spark chamber.

“It’s beautiful,” Rung said, and, oh dear, his voice sounded so raw and shaken.

“You don’t gotta do anything, okay?” Whirl said, drawing back until Rung whined and tugged at his wrists. “Manual override’s faulty or something--”

“Whirl. _Whirl_.” Rung reached up to cup Whirl’s helm in his hands. “It’s beautiful.”

Whirl’s optic locked onto his, and a shudder of disbelief rocked through his field. “I--I think I can keep it up like this? If you wanna--wanna look at it?”

His voice sounded so hesitant. Rung stroked the side of his helm, dragging his fingers down over Whirl’s pedipalps. “You can have mine.”

So many had taken it. Never once had he freely given it.

Whirl pressed his claw more firmly against Rung’s chest plating, keeping it from unlatching. “No reciprocity necessary,” he said. “I got you, Rung. I got you. It’s okay. You don’t gotta do a thing.”

Rung tried to answer--to assure him it was okay, that he didn’t mind, that he could have his spark--but then Whirl swapped out the brush at his hip for something with more pressure, more grab, and he gasped static instead. When the force increased, his optics flickered, and a full-body shudder urged him up into the touch.

“So more pressure there,” Whirl said, almost to himself. “What about a lighter touch here?”

Suddenly a soft brush replaced the claw against his chest, and his optics offlined again. The pressure at his hip kept him grounded--but the unimaginably delicate touch against his chest plate made his fans clatter, thoroughly overtaxed. He could just barely make out the sound of his own, static-heavy voice saying _yes yes yes_ over their roar.

The brush eased its careful way up to trace the circle of glass guarding his spark, and he jerked up into the contact, keening with need. Yes-- _yes_ , Whirl understood, of course he understood, and the brush glossed over the window to his spark.

“Please, Whirl, please,” he said, reaching up for him with trembling hands. “I want--I _want_ \--”

The brush circled again, and he spasmed upward, jittery and too full of charge. His chest panels parted instinctively, and blue light surged up to meet the gold.

The brush reached up to trace his cheek, shuddering. “You don’t have to--”

“So help me, Whirl!” Rung tried to push himself up, but his arms had gone weak and couldn’t support any weight at all. With the cockpit folded out of the way, he could see all too well how they could fit together, how he could cinch his legs around Whirl’s waist, how he could hook his arms up around Whirl’s shoulders, how he could be closer to Whirl than to his own soul. “I’ve told you what I want!” He sounded desperate even to his own audials. “If you want me, too, _please_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl and Rung's first time gets... complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains vivid and detailed flashbacks to past torture, noncon, and sexual violence.

Whirl’s spark leapt, closing the gap between them, and his frame followed it. With his cockpit out of the way, he could pull Rung flush against him--tuck his helm beneath Whirl’s chin and still press chest to chest, closer than he’d ever been with another mech.

Rung arched up into the contact with another keen, high and needy and too beautiful for words. He cinched his legs around Whirl’s waist and hooked his arms up over Whirl’s back, squeezing his rotors for leverage to grind their sparks together, shaking them both to the core. Whirl grabbed his hips to steady him, and he let out the most helpless, sobbing moan that Whirl had ever heard, pure need vibrating in his EM field.

Spark to spark contact wasn’t enough to set off a merge, apparently. “Rung, I--I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, more static than sound. “I want this,” Primus, every micrometer of him strained forward, aching to bridge the gap, “I want this, but I don’t know _how_.”

“I’ve got you.” Rung’s hands shook against his back, holding him, anchoring him. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

Rung caught him, and suddenly they were more than frames.

He’d doubted Rung’s attraction before--EM fields could be manipulated, tone could be faked, anyone could lie--but now he _felt_ it. He felt it dragging him in, craving contact, _wanting_.

He pressed back with all the fervent adoration he felt. Rung got his fans in a twist any time he smiled, and he probably knew that--in fact, Whirl _knew_ that he knew that, could feel the parts of him that believed it gave him his worth, could tell that he expected even Whirl to use him because he’d never known anything else.

So instead of attraction, Whirl surrounded him with caring and affection, tried to share the parts of himself that were overawed by Rung’s _goodness_. The way his eagerness and excitement made Whirl feel like--

His vision came back online, and suddenly the world was in three dimensions. He could see with depth--real depth, genuine depth not just implied by relative size--and he felt flooded with pride and purpose he hadn’t felt in millions of years.

One look around confirmed it. His shop. _His shop_.

He could feel Rung beside him, unseen and yet closer than the tool-covered desk before him. He remembered the chronometer hanging on the wall by the door--one of his favorites. It’d probably stand taller than Rung if it rested on the floor. Carved entirely of Praxian crystal, even the clockwork within it shone. He’d picked colors that complemented each other and caught the light; it cast glittering reflections throughout the entire room.

This moment--sunset filling the room with red light, the crystal clockwork magnifying it into a shower of gold sparks--was one he’d almost forgotten.

He could feel Rung pressed up against him, shocked joy flooding his field, even as he turned to survey the place he’d once carved out for himself in the world. That brief moment when he’d had _everything_.

“This is how you make me feel,” he tried to say, but the only sound in the memory was the gentle ticking of a room perfectly in sync.

In the memory, he looked down at a broken watch and knew it would be whole and complete again.

The room shifted around him, and a model ship replaced the watch. His hands--Rung’s hands--carefully opened the model to adjust the furniture in a room so small it could only be navigated with pins. Rung’s glasses dialed in on the detail, magnifying the room. A perfect habsuite, one of many on that floor of the ship. The Ark 1. Rung’s favorite ship.

His first ship. The knowledge flooded him, and his newfound awareness made details jump out at him. One habsuite had a rumpled blanket in the corner. Another had a synthetic plant. Each little room had been individualized with painstaking care.

“What a waste of time!”

Whirl recoiled from the voice, but the Rung in the memory didn’t seem to hear it. He hummed as he used a paintbrush barely one bristle thick to add grafitti to a bare room.

The past Rung felt nothing but calm pleasure in the careful work, but Whirl could feel the present Rung’s distress spike.

“What’s going on?” he tried to ask, but he could only express them as vague, confused concern. Words had no meaning here.

“Useless and worthless pursuit for a pointless drone!”

No--those words rang sharp and clear, but they weren’t a part of the past or the present. Disgust and rage filtered them into something almost nauseating, but a part of him--no, a part of Rung--recognized the voice as Master.

His spark went cold. Understanding crept into his consciousness, pressing against him in apology. Rung had been forced to present his spark routinely. Forced to merge.

Merges left traces behind.

Fury so intense that he couldn’t think swept through him. This beautiful, perfect moment--this moment that had _so clearly_ meant something to Rung--had been _stolen_ from him. They hadn’t been satisfied with taking his mind and body. They’d demanded his soul.

“It’s not fragging worthless!” Whirl shouted, trying to gather Rung close to him, to shield him from the voice of this self-styled _Master_. “Look at that work! Do you think you could’ve done anything like that? You wouldn’t have the _patience_.”

No matter how much talent one had or how much skill one developed, that kind of craftswork was unthinkably intricate. For a first project? For someone who’d self-trained and made use of substandard tools scavenged from dumpsters?

He hesitated. Scavenged from dumpsters? Rung’s knowledge seeped into him again, embarrassed and still painfully apologetic. Of course he’d scavenged for the tools. Just like Whirl, he’d been the wrong class for such work. Unlike Whirl, he hadn’t been physically imposing enough to get merchants to sell him illegal tools.

Only the fragging Functionists could make wrenches illegal.

The Master’s presence flooded with disdain, and rage overtook Whirl again.

“You just say that to my face!” Whirl wanted to wrap himself around this perfect, unharmed Rung of the past, shield him from what he knew was coming. Since he couldn’t do that, he could at least make sure Rung felt him rise to his defense. “I’ll fight you! I’ll rip your helm off!”

As the memory began to blur at the edges, Rung’s voice came into focus.

“Thank you.”

The connection flared at this point of contact. Clear, explicit meaning rather than a fuzzy presence more like an EM field. It felt like an almost tangible link had tied them together.

“You’re important, Rung,” Whirl said, and his thoughts burned with ferocity. “You’re _important_ , and they’re _wrong_.”

Doubt curled against him, and he could feel another memory surfacing--something Rung dreaded. Instead he focused on a memory of his own, hauling it to the surface after centuries of being buried.

A bar flickered into life around them. The world had gone flat again; he only had one optic and no hands at all. But his fellow Wreckers were roaring with laughter, and someone had clapped a hand against his back, and he felt as if maybe things would be all right again someday. He remembered this bar after all these years because it had been the first moment he had felt hope like that.

“And then they booted me,” he said, looking across the table to face Roadbuster. The past him didn’t know it yet; he met Roadbuster’s grin with a curved optic and obvious happiness. “We had a good run first, though.”

They really had. He’d traded the peacefulness of his shop for frenetic activity and a kind of camaraderie he wouldn’t experience again until he boarded the Lost Light.

“I thought you enjoyed the fighting.”

Whirl scoffed. “Yeah, but I could’ve picked a fight anywhere.” He had, too. He’d picked some great fights, but he didn’t especially like reflecting on them. “I liked the prank wars better. Did you know I once locked Rack’n’Ruin in the washracks for an entire orn? With bubbles running.”

“Bubbles?” Rung repeated.

“Yeah, picked ‘em up when we went planetside. Nobody even knew I had ‘em.” Warmth filled him at the memory. “Whole room was nothing but foam and bubbles when they got Rack’n’Ruin out. They’d slipped and fallen on their aft so many times it was glossy and silver.” Kup had told them to keep it like that so they wouldn’t forget the bubble menace, and everyone had laughed themselves sick.

“What had they done to incur your wrath?” Rung’s tone was teasing, and Whirl relaxed as he felt the tension fading between them.

“Told me even a buff and polish wouldn’t fix my ugly mug.”

“Clearly they’d never had the pleasure of kissing this supposedly _ugly_ mug.” Heat pulsed between them, charge shared directly through their cores, and Whirl felt his frame grind down against Rung’s.

Though he tried to shield him from the awareness that he actually _had_ ‘faced the twins, nothing could really be hidden in a merge. Thankfully, when the memory of being pressed belly-down against the berth started to surface, Rung took the reins.

“I frequented bars, as well,” Rung said. “Before--everything. When I still had friends and colleagues.”

Whirl recognized Maccadam’s as soon as the memory surfaced. They looked out together through Rung’s optics, and Whirl recognized Rung’s friends through the merge. That friend had always preferred bitter additives and yet insisted on buying them sweet so she could shove them over to Rung to finish. The one beside her had once glued a Praxian crystal over each lens of Rung’s glasses while he was passed-out drunk, and he’d woken to a rosy, multi-faceted smile full of laughter.

“They’d certainly laugh at you now.”

“If they’d even look at you.”

“No, I doubt they’d tolerate being in the same room as you.”

A chorus of voices drowned out the cheerful conversation in the memory. Three different mechs; each one recognized immediately, viscerally, as _Master_.

“Not you fraggers again!” In the present, his back plating flared in a threat display. He curled around Rung to guard against possible harm--potential attackers--almost instinctively. “Rung is a goddamn delight, and nobody will ever say different! Not in front of me!”

But Rung had already gone slack with dread. “Oh no.” The thought-voice was nearly inaudible. Terror flooded them--him--and Whirl felt the rush of realization without any real understanding. Just the knowledge that he should have known--should have known-- _should have known_ \--

And without more than a flicker, the memory ripped him away from Rung. He looked into dim optics and tried to reach out to reassure the dread-soaked EM field rolling off of his too-still frame.

When he did reach out, however, it was with a white hand--a hand he didn’t recognize.

In the present, Rung’s hands scrambled against his chassis. When the hand in the memory patted his cheek, he sobbed aloud in protest.

“Let me go,” he begged, the memory’s face still placid and empty. “Whirl, you can’t see this, let me _go_.”

Whirl couldn’t let him go in the memory--whose hand was this? Whose optics--no, just one optic, faceless like himself.

“Whirl, we need to stop the merge,” Rung pleaded. Distress washed over the connection between them. “Whirl, let me go. Let me go right now.”

“You _can’t_ stop a merge,” he said, then hesitated. “Right?”

He’d heard awful things about broken merges. Partners could die, leaving wisps of their spark trapped against the survivor’s. Flashbacks that persisted for the rest of their functioning.

“I don’t care what happens to me,” Rung insisted. “Please, you can’t see this. Let me _go_.”

Rung’s tiny hands shoved him hard. Whirl’s arms went automatically slack to give him freedom to move--and then he realized that Rung was trying to sever the connection.

“You could kill me,” he said, still not forcing him to stay put. He watched the hand attached to whoever he was in this memory as it pinched one of Rung’s antennae.

He hadn’t been afraid to die before, but fear stole through him. He had no way to know which of them would make it out alive. Still, he couldn’t-- _wouldn’t_ \--force his spark against Rung’s.

“I don’t want you to die,” Whirl admitted, his thought-voice small and scared. “If I survive and you don’t, I won’t know what to do.”

He thought of that day he’d stood drenched in oil, prepared to go out with bang with only offlined drones to see him, and he thought that maybe he _did_ know what he’d do. If Rung died because he’d fragged up the spark-merge--

Rung went still against him. “I’m so sorry.” Aloud and across the connection, Whirl felt the sob as if it’d been ripped from his own vocalizer. “I’m so sorry.”

The present Rung faded, leaving Whirl--or whoever he currently was--with the past Rung. He’d been buffed and polished and waxed until he glowed. But why would he have a memory of looking at himself? This wasn’t a mirror--the hand proved that.

“You’ll be good for my friends, won’t you, little one?” Whirl asked--no, whoever’s memory he was in. But who could have left a fragment of their own--

“Yes, Master,” Rung answered, and Whirl understood.

He felt the Master’s spark fill with an awful lust as his hand slipped down to squeeze Rung’s throat.

“No more speaking. Get on the table.”

Whirl shoved him aside by the throat, and Rung moved fluidly to the table. Whirl recognized it as the same one he’d just seen Rung’s friends laughing around. Some amount of time had passed--it was dark outside rather than light, and the faces in the crowd were all mechs that Whirl recognized as Senators. A high-society gathering in a quaint little bar.

Whirl almost yanked away from the thought as he recognized who it’d come from--how it’d gotten there.

He recognized the way Rung splayed himself out on the table. He’d seen that pose on his berth not a joor ago. But instead of looking up at Whirl with eager interest, his helm lay limp against the table. Every limb looked heavy with exhaustion.

“Open for us.”

Rung didn’t twitch as his chest plates parted, exposing that bright and beautiful spark. When Whirl approached, resignation hung heavy over Rung’s field. No hint of defiance remained; his optics just offlined.

“You bring the best toys,” another Senator remarked. “How _did_ you find this one?”

“Oh, speak to my associates after the party.” Whirl felt his optic curve into a grin. “We’re willing to share with like-minded individuals.”

“I hope you’re willing to share _tonight_ ,” someone else called. Whirl looked over to see a stranger pinching Rung’s spark. Not an associate--not one of the ones who knew what had been done to Rung. He still didn’t ask permission.

“Oh, please, help yourselves.” Whirl gestured with wide, welcoming arms. “He’s yours for the taking.”

He gagged, sick right down to his spark, but the words had already left his vocalizer. The crowd had started shoving tables together, and at least forty mechs crowded around Rung’s limp frame. He joined them, dragging his fingers along Rung’s abdomen and grinning again as he shuddered.

“Still,” he ordered.

No. _No_ , he wanted to press reassurance down into that terrified EM field. His fingers hooked on that hip joint Rung loved to have massaged, but, instead of a comforting rub, he buried his fingers into the seam and _tore_.

The plating came away like tin foil in his grip, crumpling in his palm, but Rung didn’t even react--didn’t yelp with pain, didn’t flinch as other hands and claws dug into sensitive transformation seams.

How many times had they done this to him? Rung had said he’d spent about two hundred eighty vorns--over twenty-three thousand years--in their service.

Three mechs grabbed at his spark, and he did nothing.

“Keep your optics online,” Whirl said. “Look at us.”

Rung’s optics onlined immediately, and Whirl noticed the faint sheen of cleaning fluid building up behind his glasses as their optics met.

The fear in that gaze left the Senator almost giddy. “Unspool your cable.”

Rung did so without hesitation, though his hands shook as he tried not to block access to his spark. When he held it out, Whirl yanked it from his grasp, bending his thumb back so far that it nearly lay flat against his wrist.

“Who’s got some charge to let off?”

Whirl felt his frame shaking--his actual frame in the present, in reality--but the Senator’s hands were steady as he plugged Rung into a cable-splitter and passed cords--so many cords, more input than any bot could possibly take--around the table.

“Stay online.” Whirl ran a finger over the jack and popped his own interface hatch open. With a sudden, sickening swoop of disgust, he realized that he was about to plug in--to use him like a capacitor like the twenty or more mechs that were already jacking in around the table.

“Not like this,” he pleaded. Not with Rung looking at him with optics almost sparking from the buildup of cleaning fluid. Not with Rung completely devoid of charge and interest. “Not like this.”

Plug met port, and charge arced through his system, eager to escape through the new outlet. He reached inside of Rung’s systems, jostling up against the two dozen other mechs tearing through the firewalls--if he had firewalls at all--and rewriting code at will. When he found a nice thought or a pretty memory, he would shove another surge of charge down the line and watch Rung’s optics spark with tears.

He’d ‘faced a hundred thousand times. This? _This wasn’t ‘facing._ This wasn’t about feeling good. Sitting in the senator’s head, he _knew_ that this was about putting Rung in his place.

It wasn’t enough. He ached down to his core as he surveyed the insufficiency of Rung’s pain. Every fiber of his being--no, the Senator’s being, not his, _not his_ \--craved to see Rung in agony.

“On your belly, spark to the glass,” he said. At the little flicker of _relief_ in Rung’s field, he tutted. “Keep your head to the side so you can see your betters.”

The relief vanished, but he still complied. One of the mechs who hadn’t jacked in snaked a hand beneath Rung to keep pawing at his spark.

Whirl knew what was coming the moment his hand began ghosting down Rung’s back. He wanted to shout a warning--wanted to tell Rung what the senator had in mind--but Rung remained limp and unresponsive beneath him. No one held Rung in place because his own frame did the work for them. Whirl had seen what the code did when crossed.

So Rung didn’t flinch or sob when Whirl began systematically tearing the armor from his protoform. Energon pooled in the mangled gashes where chunks of mesh had been gouged out along with the plating, and Whirl’s proboscis extended to taste it, burying itself into one of Rung’s fuel lines.

It tasted sweet, and he wanted to purge it from his system. Wanted to forget the flavor. Wanted to believe he hadn’t enjoyed the rich texture or the warmth as it rushed down his throat.

He couldn’t purge it, he wouldn’t forget it, and he didn’t believe it.

Rung’s plating snapped like energon candy beneath his hands. The likeness would never have occurred to him, but the senator missed his denta just long enough to imagine taking a bite out of the armor, tasting the glossy wax coating. He dug his proboscis deeper into Rung’s fuel lines and siphoned out more and more fuel, wrenching off the rest of the metal guarding Rung’s back and stripping him bare.

He drew back to survey his handiwork, and another senator shoved Rung onto his energon-slicked back to give more of them access to his spark. Staticky clicks escaped Rung’s voxcoder before even that muted itself, and Whirl took a vicious delight in grabbing him by the throat in punishment.

“I said _no more speaking_ ,” he hissed, dragging Rung up to kneel on the table. “Not one sound, you understand? You’d better behave yourself if you want your reward.”

The nature of this reward eluded Whirl, but he didn’t like the terror that filled Rung’s sparking optics. He wrenched the glasses off of his face and threw them to shatter on the ground behind them. When Rung’s optics followed them instead of focusing on Whirl, he grabbed Rung by the jaw and pinched his mouth open as he forced him to look him in the optic.

“You do want your reward, don’t you?”

Rung’s fans clattered stiffly, painfully, involuntarily. Whirl _knew_ what they were supposed to sound like--he knew that this was more fear than arousal. He grinned anyway.

“Of course you do.”

He threw Rung down hard against the table, cracking the glass, and shoved all his newfound charge down the line.

Rung lay still and unmoving and silent, optics on Whirl as the echoes of the forced mechanical overload echoed back down the cable connecting them.

***

That party had led to another and another and _another_. Rung’s frame felt as if it might shake itself apart. He could feel Whirl’s horror and disgust every time a Master reached for him and he allowed it. Every time his fans rattled against his will. Every time hands reached and grabbed and _took_.

It must have been killing Whirl to not fight back. Rung couldn’t tune out the memories, and he’d already experienced each one a hundredfold. For someone like Whirl--someone with fire right down to his spark--of course it would provoke shame.

He wished he’d broken the connection and offlined instead. Better to die high in Whirl’s esteem--anyone’s esteem--than face them after they’d seen the truth.

They’d taken him apart, and he’d done nothing.

***

At some parties, Rung had been a courteous and well-trained guest. At a few, he’d been a fragtoy. In each memory, Whirl stared into him through the perspective of one of the mechs who’d hurt him.

Finally, the parties ended. He faced a dark, empty room and vented a sigh of relief.

Except the vent didn’t release. He was still in a memory--still somewhere in Rung’s spark. He reached out a hand and flicked on the lights, a smile playing around the corners of his lips. When he turned, he saw Rung kneeling on the floor, optics downcast.

Whirl walked past him without comment, then sat on the berth at the far end of the room and beckoned. Rung crawled over to kneel at his pedes, just as he’d done for Whirl when he’d been in the coding’s grip.

“You did wonderfully tonight, little one. Would you like your reward?”

“Yes, Master.” Rung’s voice and hands did not shake, but Whirl could feel self-loathing and horror rolling off of his EM field in waves.

Whirl was afraid of the hand he reached out toward Rung, but it just caressed Rung’s cheek. “You love this, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

He sounded like a drone. Whirl smiled and pinched his cheek. “Good.”

Rung’s optics flickered at the praise, and he seemed to take a moment to steel himself before pressing into Whirl’s hand--or perhaps the tensing had been a moment of fighting the code and accepting defeat.

Even the curve of his shoulders looked defeated.

“Oh, little one, you know I like to hear you,” Whirl crooned, reaching down to tap on the glass window to Rung’s spark. It parted at once, and he stroked the inner walls of the chamber.

Rung moaned, and Whirl might have believed he was actually enjoying the sensation, the attention, except that a sick dread filled his EM field, warring with the arousal. He arched into the touch, his optics unshielded and looking up at Whirl--not with the desire he’d seen directed at himself. Obedience. Fear.

Even as Rung gasped and vented and pleaded against him, Whirl knew with absolute certainty that he would not have said yes if he’d ever been allowed a no.

But Whirl also knew that he, as the Master, didn’t care. He hauled Rung up on the berth and shoved and pinched and prodded and scratched anywhere the charge flickered, relishing every whine and plea and moan.

“Keep your EM field to yourself until I’m done with you,” he said, and it was easier to pretend.

His own charge swelled as he pushed down against Rung’s frame, grinding his chest plate against Rung’s exposed spark. A bite against his neck left him whimpering. He reached up to paw at the wheel affixed to Rung’s back, squeezing the rubber for the sheer delight of the tactile sensation.

Rung pressed into every touch, his EM field only clear at the point of contact. Whirl grabbed his hips and felt his distress. He lacerated his abdomen and drank up his terror. He buried his denta in Rung’s shoulder and warmed himself with his self-loathing.

Anyone who walked in would see him ravishing a bot pleading for more. The truth could be his little secret.

Charge crackled and burned and flared as it arced between their frames, connecting them, spurring them on.

“Master, please may I--” Rung sobbed, and his voice broke off into static. “Please may I--”

Overload hit them both the moment Whirl nodded.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl and Rung try to gather themselves after a very very bad merge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emetophobia warning for this chapter.

Rung barely checked to make sure their sparks had separated before yanking away and scrambling to the far end of the berth. He pressed his back to the wall and met Whirl’s gaze. Even though they were far enough apart that Whirl’s EM field should have been almost unnoticeable, Rung could feel his shame and disgust piercing all the way down to his spark.

Whirl broke his gaze and retched over the side of the berth.

“I’m sorry--” Rung’s vocalizer wouldn’t online; not even static came out. “I’ll leave if you--” No, his voice still failed him.

He watched Whirl shuddering on the far side of the berth, his claws denting his arms as he twisted resolutely away from Rung.

Rung had ruined everything.

They’d warned him, of course. They’d warned him that he would be spoiled for all future interfacing. He’d spent the last four million years convincing himself that they’d lied--that _of course_ they would lie, _of course_ he could still interface with others--but he’d been wrong. They’d done nothing by halves; when they decided to ruin him for merges, they’d done it.

Whirl purged again, this time making the most desolate sound Rung had ever heard vocalized. Even Whirl--who had been gentle beyond understanding, who had fought the code and shouted back at the memories and cared for him when he was sick--found him disgusting. Whirl, who had seen the most brutal battles and horrific gore and didn’t even lose sleep, was purging after a single moment of exposure to Rung’s spark.

He felt filthy down to his core.

After millions of years lying to himself, he could finally see that they’d been right. He was, on a fundamental level, repulsive. No one could love someone with a ruined spark. Someone like him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing through the static. “I’m so sorry.”

Whirl had felt him overload from their ministrations. Had experienced him lying back and taking any punishment they dealt him.

Once the words started, they refused to stop. Apology after apology poured from his voxcoder, but apologies couldn’t fix this.

Whirl purged a third time, still not looking at him, and Rung’s voice broke.

***

He came to his senses after his systems rebooted, circuits still singing with overload. His claws looked alien and too familiar at the same time.

Their sparks had released in the heat of the overload; the moment Rung’s optics onlined and met his, they broke apart, leaping to opposite ends of the berth. Much as Whirl wanted to reach out and hold Rung close and comfort him, he was afraid--deathly afraid of what his claws might do if extended. He’d had claws and fingers and denta around Rung’s neck already.

He’d had a proboscis jabbed down Rung’s veins and thought he tasted sweet.

Disgust hit him so suddenly he barely managed to twist sideways before he purged. He thought again of the rich velvety energon in Rung’s back and the fuel in his tanks curdled and made an appearance on his habsuite floor.

He’d hurt Rung. He’d hurt Rung in the worst ways--ways more awful and intimate than any torture he’d faced during four million years of war--and _he’d enjoyed it_. He’d overloaded. He’d overloaded hard enough to knock tertiary systems offline.

He purged a third time, even more violently than before, and his ringing audials finally began to clear.

“I’m so sorry,” Rung was saying. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice cracked with static, sharp and frantic and full of more pain than Whirl could stand. “I should have known. I should have known better. I’m so sorry.”

“I hurt you,” Whirl said, and he was almost shocked by the horror in his own voice. “I--Rung, I hurt you, I hurt you, I can’t take it back, I’m so sorry--”

“What are you talking--”

Whirl’s vents opened wide, sucking in air as his tried to steady himself, but his armor wouldn’t stop rattling. Guilt ate him alive. “I’m so sorry that I hurt you, Rung, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry--”

He flinched away from the shaking servo that reached up to touch his helm.

“--I shoulda offlined myself before I hurt you like that, I never wanted to hurt you like that, I swear, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry and it’s never gonna be enough--”

“Whirl, I don’t--Whirl, look at me!”

It took a lot of distress to get cleaning fluid going with his fragged-up optic, but Rung’s face swam before him, distorted beyond recognition, when he turned.

“I’m so--” Whirl’s voice broke into static; he couldn’t face it. He couldn’t look Rung in the optic and pretend sorry could cut it.

Rung’s hands came up to steady him, one supporting each side of his helm. “Whirl, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I hurt you.” Whirl’s engine made a choked sound as it tried to turn over and realized it was running hot. He wanted to purge again. “Are you okay?” That should’ve been the first thing out of his voxcoder, apologies be damned. He tried to online his vocalizer, but it guttered out in a series of pained clicks. Words couldn’t make this right. Nothing he did could make this right.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Rung said, and, _Primus_ , his voice was soothing. Reassurance pulsed through his field. “Shh, shh. Whirl, how do you think you hurt me?”

“My hands around--” He gagged. “My snout all down your--” He couldn’t; he couldn’t. “I hurt you so bad. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hands around--” Rung’s optics went wide as realization hit. “Whirl, what perspective did you see those memories from?”

His claws clicked with distress. “I hurt you,” he answered, his voice softer than he’d meant it to be.

“Oh no.” Rung’s hands tensed against Whirl. “Whirl, no, you didn’t hurt me.”

“I overloaded,” he sobbed. It seemed too much to ask to let Rung touch him with those sweet gentle hands. “I was hurting you and I overloaded.”

“Shh, shh.” Rung stroked Whirl’s helm. “I’m fine, see? I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”

Whirl couldn’t pull away from the touch he didn’t deserve. He reached a shaking claw out and fully expected Rung to flinch away, but he leaned forward to press his cheek into the touch instead.

“Look, I’m fine. See for yourself.”

Rung settled back against the berth, and Whirl began the slow, meticulous process of checking him for damage. He couldn’t bring himself to touch his claws to Rung’s smooth plating--terrified he’d get the sudden urge to crumple it, to rip it off, to strip him down to the protoform again. Instead he kept a handspan of distance between them at all times, gently motioning for Rung to turn over when he’d finished examining his front.

His back had a few thin scratches in the paint that he _knew_ were just cosmetic, but his claw hovered over them, guilt roaring in his spark. Even so, his vision had cleared, and his armor no longer rattled against his frame.

“What can I do?” Whirl asked.

“You don’t need to do anything, Whirl,” Rung said, and Whirl ached at the absence of the petname. As if sensing the thought, Rung looked up at him. “Treasure--”

“What can I do?” Whirl repeated. He flinched away from his own claws as they clicked in agitation, yanking them away from Rung. His claws had left gashes in Rung’s cheeks. His claws had torn screams from Rung’s throat. They weren’t safe--they couldn’t be allowed near him.

“You can hold me for a while.” Rung held out his arms wide, but Whirl hesitated.

“I might hurt you again.”

“You haven’t hurt me yet.” A tremor ran through his arms, and he looked away. “I--” He reset his vocalizer. “If you would like me to leave, I would understand. After what you saw--” His voice cracked with static, and Whirl’s spark surged as shame burned through Rung’s field.

“What? No!” Whirl wanted to drag him into a hug, but he didn’t trust his own claws. Instead, he hesitated. “You can fit in my alt, right? I’ve got squishy seats for passengers.” And he couldn’t hurt Rung as a helicopter, not once he was safely inside the cockpit. “Not to--not to go anywhere. Just to sit.”

“Yes, I rode in your cockpit that night on Hedonia, but…” Rung looked away. “I can’t reciprocate.”

“It’s like a hug,” Whirl said. “A hug where I--where I can’t hurt you.”

He didn’t need Rung to hug him back--didn’t even deserve to hold him. But if Rung needed physical contact, Whirl was gonna find a way to get that for him.

His rotors clattered nervously on his back, and he slid off the berth--carefully avoiding the puddle of half-processed energon--and transformed, popping a door open to welcome Rung.

“You haven’t hurt me,” Rung insisted, still curled sideways on the berth. He looked small and fragile, but Whirl had seen him survive more torture in one spark-merge than Whirl had faced in four million years of war. To survive that--that _and_ the war without a single weapon or redesign--he was stronger than any mech on the ship.

Whirl waited. After a long moment, Rung groaned and hobbled off the berth, managing to avoid the mess Whirl had made on the floor. He looked achy, and Whirl suddenly felt like an aft for making him stand up.

Still, when Rung climbed into his cockpit, he relaxed minutely. He didn’t deserve the measure of acceptance, forgiveness, but he wanted it.

“Are you okay?” Whirl asked. “You--you’re tryin’ to take care of me, but you’re the one who got--” He couldn’t say it.

Rung tucked his knees beneath his chin as he curled up on the seat. Whirl could feel distress and anxiety through every point of contact.

“Obviously you aren’t okay,” Whirl began, and Rung flinched. “What do you need? More contact? Less confined space? What can I _do_?”

***

Confusion washed through Rung as he tried to pick apart Whirl’s reasoning. “You don’t need--” he began, then vented hard. “May I close the door?”

“Yeah, of course, whatever you need.”

Whirl had deliberately left an escape route open for him, and Rung sealed it off. He felt safer immediately. More than ever before, Rung had absolute and unwavering confidence that Whirl wouldn’t hurt him. For good measure, he grabbed the seatbelt and buckled himself in.

It startled him how much tension fled his frame when the strap settled across his chest, guarding his spark. He drew his knees up against his chest in a feeble attempt to hug the seatbelt in return.

“Do you--do you want to talk about it?”

Rung reset his vocalizer, but words wouldn’t come. Here, in this safe space, he couldn’t face anything that might drive Whirl away.

“I really fragged up.” Whirl’s voice was practically inaudible, but it seemed to pierce Rung to the spark.

“I’m sorry,” Rung said. “I--I know how it must look.”

A flurry of confused glyphs hit him, and he vented.

“You believed I spent all that time fighting,” he said. “But now you know. You know that I did whatever they said.” Given that most mechs found Rung’s field hard to read, he’d probably believed Rung’s acting, too. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“You think--” Whirl’s voice was disbelief made audible. “You think _that’s_ what upset me?”

Rung twisted sideways to press his cheek against the plush seat and nodded once.

“Rung, no.” The distress in the air felt palpable. “Rung, no, no, _no_ , that is _not_ why I got upset.”

“You accepted my courtship without knowing the extent of my--of my damage.” Rung offlined his optics and braced himself. “I will take no offense if you reconsider.”

“Rung, stop it.”

Rung’s ventilations had stalled out; he could manage only weak rattles. “You can’t possibly want a cojunx with half a spark.” He refused to let the sob pass through his vocalizer. “I understand.”

“You don’t understand a damn thing!”

Rung flinched against the seat, fear spiking in his chest, and the EM field surrounding him suddenly went soft and sweet.

“Shh, shh, I’m so sorry.” Whirl’s voice had dropped to a gentle murmur. “I can’t stand it when you’re hurting. I can’t stand you thinking you’re no good. Primus in the Pit, Rung, you’re better than every damn mech on this piece of scrap ship.”

Rung felt as if he had a direct line to the sincerity behind those words. He knew--beyond any doubt--that Whirl was speaking honestly. “At the end,” he said, and he had to reset his vocalizer to continue. “At the end, you were the senator?”

He heard Whirl’s rotors spin once, sharply. “Yes.”

“I--I know what it looked like, but I didn’t want it,” he said. “I didn’t want any of it.”

“I know that, Rung,” Whirl said. “I know your field.”

“Did--” Rung hesitated. “Did he know?”

“Yes.” The word sounded as if it’d been dragged from Whirl’s voxcoder. “Yes, he knew. He knew what he was doing.”

“Oh.” Rung heard rattling before he realized that he had started shaking. He drew his armor tight against him to silence it. “I see.”

He felt suddenly, deeply cold. His spark had turned to ash in his chest.

“They told me they couldn’t read my field,” he said. His voice was breaking; he fought to steady it. “They told me I always felt... ready to go.” Like a fragtoy should be.

“They lied.”

Rung lay still and silent against Whirl’s seat, pressing his forehelm to the seatbelt and trying to ground himself in Whirl’s EM field. It wasn’t enough. “I would very much like to cuddle.”

Silence hung between them for a moment, and his spark sank.

“If you’re amenable,” he said weakly.

“I kept trying to reach out in the merge and make you feel better.” The field around him prickled with shame. “But I kept--I kept hurting you. And then I overloaded.”

“I overloaded as well,” Rung pointed out. “Do you believe I enjoyed the lead-up any more than you did?”

“Of course not!” Whirl said, alarmed. “Primus, Rung, no, no, I don’t think that for a second!”

“Then why are you to blame for your overload while I remain blameless?”

Whirl’s rotors spun once more. “...How is it that you can turn things upside down just like that?” Whirl grumbled. “Okay, okay, you win. Hop out and we’ll snuggle. But I want you to wrap my claws up in blankets just in case, okay?”

Rung reached to unbuckle himself. “That’s not necessary, sweetspark. I trust you.”

Whirl’s vocalizer clicked several times as it reset. “I appreciate that,” he said. “But right now, I kinda don’t trust myself.”

***

Whirl felt much more at ease with his claws bound shut and padded so they couldn’t do any damage even if they got away from him. With that worry out of the way, he devoted his whole focus to giving Rung the best snuggle he could. He arranged them so that Rung lay astride his cockpit, face buried in Whirl’s neck. When Rung seemed comfortable, Whirl curled his helm to shield Rung’s head and upper back, then positioned his arms and claws to maximize how much surface area they covered on Rung’s frame.

Unwilling to tolerate leaving any gaps in his coverage, Whirl massaged up and down the areas that couldn’t be completely protected.

“This better?”

The tension drained from Rung’s EM field by increments. “Much, thank you. Are you comfortable?”

Whirl still didn’t feel like he deserved to hold Rung, but he tried to keep that worry out of his voice. “I’m great.” He kneaded his padded claws against Rung’s back. “How’re you holding up?”

Rung shifted, pressing closer to him. “Are you sure you wish me to continue with this courtship?” His voice was small and afraid. “I’ll understand, treasure. I promise.”

“Okay, I’m gonna be upfront with you.” Whirl vented hard as Rung tensed. “I think you deserve better than me, but you asked what I _want_ , and what I _want_ is you.” And wasn’t that a damn embarrassing thing to say? “I can’t pick for you, Rung, and I wouldn’t if I could. But I want you more than I want anything, okay? And this--if this changed anything, it still didn’t change _that_.” He hesitated. “At least, not for me.”

“Sweetspark,” Rung began, voice thick with static, then nuzzled Whirl’s neck. “I want you. I’m just--I’m just so sorry you had to experience that. I should have known better.”

“I liked the first memory you shared,” Whirl offered, voice low.

“Your shop was even better,” Rung said. “I had no idea how intricate your work was. I never had the opportunity to visit shops of that calibre.”

“I was the best chronosmith on Cybertron.” There was more pride than bitterness in his voice when he said so, which felt like progress. “And you’re gonna get a chronometer of your own, so don’t you worry about a thing, okay?”

Rung nodded against his neck, and silence lapsed between them. Whirl focused on massaging the lingering tension from Rung’s frame to keep himself from getting stuck in the memory of his claws wrenching Rung’s armor from his protoform. His claws were tied shut with blankets; he _couldn’t_ hurt Rung like this. That was a comfort.

Into the quiet, Rung spoke. “In the future, how should I reassure you when you’re panicking?”

It wasn’t anything like his shrink voice, despite the lingo. Not that the shrink voice had ever gotten them anywhere. “I don’t panic much,” Whirl said. “Probably won’t come up.”

Rung just waited him out, though. Whirl didn’t have close to his kind of patience.

“I think I’ve only freaked out when I thought you were in trouble, to be honest,” he said. “So if you--I dunno, give me something to do? Like, to help you out? I think that’s probably the best way to settle me down again.” He chuckled. “I guess the unvincible Whirl has one known weakness.”

He could feel Rung’s smile against his neck. “It’ll be our secret.”

Whirl’s engine rumbled in pleased agreement. “What about you, Rung? How can I make you feel better?”

Rung hummed thoughtfully. “I’m usually alone when I have panic attacks, but I find it helps to seal off access points. Lock the doors, confine myself to a small area.”

“Touch good or bad?”

“Good,” Rung said. “Firm touches only. And not--not in areas with notable trauma attached to them.” He pulled back and indicated a few spots on his sides, arms, and legs. “Nothing--nothing sexual, though.”

“Uh, that would probably be about the furthest thing from my mind, but sure, got it.” Whirl made note of the points Rung had indicated. “So you wanna feel safe, right? Like it’d be okay if I got protective?”

Rung’s small, tender smile sent warmth shooting through his spark. “I’d quite like that, actually.”

Whirl nodded to himself, gathering Rung back up in his arms. “Anything else I oughtta know?”

“I sometimes experience oversensitization during panic attacks. Sensory input can quickly overwhelm me. The firm touches keep me grounded, but audio and visual data can exacerbate my anxiety.”

“So get you somewhere quiet and dark and safe and give you lots of hugs?” Whirl summarized.

As he’d hoped, it prompted Rung to laugh. “Yes, that sounds about right.” He hesitated, tensing briefly in Whirl’s arms. “I’m sorry to be a bother.”

Whirl snorted. “Yeah, it’s such a pain to hug the cutest bot in the galaxy. What a hassle.”

When that prompted Rung to relax and start giggling, Whirl finally felt like maybe things would be okay.

***

As Whirl drifted off into recharge beneath him, Rung vented softly, curling against the warm frame of his courtmate.

His courtmate. After everything he’d seen and even experienced, Whirl still wanted him. Rung had lost count of how many times he’d been reassured in the last joor that Whirl was perfectly happy to stick to hardline or tactile or even just cuddling. Whatever Rung needed. Whatever Rung wanted.

At any other time, he would have been skeptical, but he could _feel_ Whirl’s sincerity. All the way down into his spark, Rung _knew_ that Whirl meant every word. He thought about the gentle, tender way that Whirl had explored his frame--impossibly sweet, almost reverent. No one had ever regarded Rung like that before.

And the merge hadn’t changed that.

Once again, Rung marveled at the sheer improbability that he had imprinted on the one bot in the universe who had been willing to do anything to keep him safe. Even without the coding, Rung wanted to do _something_ for him. Something to express the depth of his gratitude and the enormity of his affection.

He’d never wanted to serve, to submit. Not without the coding eating away at him. But as he ran a servo over Whirl’s blanketed claws, he _wanted_. He wanted to be held still and safe beneath this mech who would never push his boundaries. He wanted to feed him, to serve him, to take care of him.

Offlining his optics, Rung settled against Whirl’s chassis and considered.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung brings up his kinks less than gracefully. Whirl comes to the rescue.

When Whirl onlined, the first thing he noticed was that his claws ached like the Pit. He tried to stretch them, but they wouldn’t budge.

That got him up in a hurry. He floundered to sit up, stymied by the clumsiness of his claws and an unexpected weight on one arm.

“Whirl?” Rung’s voice was groggy but alarmed. “Sweetspark, what’s wrong?”

Whirl stilled immediately. “My claws,” he said, feeling ridiculous as he settled back against the berth. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I must have drifted off,” Rung murmured. “Meant to undo those once you were asleep.” He groaned and pushed himself upright, gathering one of Whirl’s claws in his lap. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little sore,” he said. “It’s okay. You can recharge some more.”

Rung ignored him and turned to the next claw while Whirl stretched the first. Scrap, stretching the claw hurt worse than when it’d been trapped by the blankets. It was agony to open and close it.

Once both claws were free, Rung tossed the blankets over the side of the bed and started massaging the joints at the base of Whirl’s claws. “I’m sorry, treasure. I should have undone those last night.”

Whirl tried to answer, but it came out as a groan. Rung’s hands felt fragging amazing.

“Does that help?”

Whirl nodded wordlessly, letting his claws fall limp in Rung’s lap. He curled himself around Rung protectively, and, for several long moments, they cuddled in silence. Rung’s EM field radiated contentment, which left Whirl feeling like putty in his hands.

“You’re wonderful,” Whirl tried to say, but it came out slurred. “Why’re you so wonderful?”

Pride flushed Rung’s field for a split-second before exasperated fondness took its place. “I’m the one who left you tied up all night. I hardly think that makes me wonderful.”

Whirl snorted. He hoped it conveyed the full depth of how colossally misguided it was for Rung to think he was anything less than amazing, because the massage had sort of stripped him of the mental faculties he needed to actually explain that.

Rung tweaked the joint _just so_ , and Whirl melted against him. The amusement rippling through Rung’s field was gratifying. “You know, I think I enjoy taking care of you.” His hands stilled for a moment, and an embarrassing whine snuck out of Whirl’s voxcoder, prompting him to start back on the massage. “I was wondering…” He trailed off.

Whirl nuzzled his side. “Mm?”

Nervous hope flitted through Rung’s field. “How would you feel about--about having me serve you?”

The only thing that kept Whirl from scrambling away with terror was the _hope_ in Rung’s voice. He could think of two things it might mean, and he’d make both of them worse if he pulled away. “Rung, tell me the honest truth, did you re-imprint on me?”

Okay, so he probably sounded terrified. He _was_ terrified. They’d fragged up his last suicide attempt, but he’d sooner jump out an airlock than let Rung live like that again. And death out an airlock was _slow_. It took a long time to starve, even out in the cold darkness of space.

“No, no, this isn’t the slave-coding,” Rung said, and embarrassment ate away at the hope. “I just--I do actually enjoy taking care of you, and I feel safe with you. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this, but you--you’ve taken such good care of me.”

“Because I wanted to,” Whirl said. “Not because I wanted to pile up favors. You don’t owe me scrap, Rung, and I _mean_ that.”

Rung’s field teeked quiet and sad. “Yes, but--” He stroked Whirl’s claw slowly, affectionately. “In the merge, you shouted back at them. And that helped a little. I think.” He ducked his head. “And I have so many bad memories attached to service--negative associations--that I think you could help me heal.” He reset his vocalizer and released Whirl’s claws. “Only if you want to, of course.”

Well, that kinda made sense. Whirl tried to relax, relieved that at least the coding wasn’t coming back again. “If you wanna make new memories about, uh, service,” he began, looking away, “what about me being the sub instead?”

Rung froze. “What?”

“Like, if this is about getting better associations, wouldn’t it be better to start a step back?” Whirl’s claws clicked nervously. “I don’t know if I could boss you around yet.” Let alone beat him up, if that was what he wanted. He’d seen some kinky stuff in his time with the Wreckers, but that was with mechs who tore up battlefields. Not...gentle noncombatants. Not mechs who’d spent nearly three hundred vorns with slave-coding. “So you could tell me what to do. I could feed you--”

He broke off as one of his cooling fans quietly came to life, thinking of Rung sinking denta into his throat and writhing against his cockpit. Yeah, he wouldn’t object to that _at all_.

Rung ran a soft hand along Whirl’s chest as if remembering the same moment. “I--I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Whirl twisted to look up at Rung, but his face was blank and his field oddly conflicted. Desire warred with shame--which seemed like a red light to Whirl. “Having a Wrecker at your beck and call’s gotta be one of the number one fantasies out there.” The desire started to push back the shame, and Whirl’s optic curved into a grin as he exposed his throat in an overt display of submission. “What would you do if you had me at your mercy, huh?”

Rung’s cooling fans kicked in, and self-loathing washed across his field so sharply that Whirl forgot about his attempt at a sexy pose and looked up.

“Hey, Rung, you okay?”

“I couldn’t possibly hurt you.” Rung’s voice was too tight. “I shouldn’t _want_ to.”

“A kink’s a kink,” Whirl said. “I’ve played both sides of that game. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t want to be like _them_.”

Whirl’s optic narrowed. “See, that’s exactly my point! If you think of the dom as the bad guy, it’s no good for me to top you.”

“But I _know_ you wouldn’t hurt me,” Rung said, squeezing Whirl’s claw. “You’d hold me down and keep me safe. I--I don’t know what I could offer as a dominant.”

Whirl vented and steeled himself. “Okay. Let’s talk about this. What do you want out of a scene?”

Rung draped himself over Whirl’s side, the self-loathing fading. “I--I like the idea of being held down.” He hesitated. “Only by you, though. You make me feel safe.”

“Movement restriction, huh?” Well, that was pretty tame. Didn’t need to have powerplay involved. Worth considering, at least. “What else?”

“I had hoped you might have some ideas.”

Whirl snorted. “Sub’s gotta take the lead on drawing boundaries.” Not a hard and fast rule, but it’d certainly helped him before the war. “Dom won’t take the lead until the rules are all drawn up and everybody’s on the same playing field.”

“But I don’t _know_.”

The same voice that had been baffled by tenderness in interfacing. It reminded him that Rung didn’t have any good experiences to draw from.

“Probably too soon, then,” Whirl said. “Let’s take it slow.”

***

They spent the day recovering by building model ships. Rung stuck a tiny flag on Whirl’s helm and dubbed him his treasure. Whirl retaliated by painting the glyph for _brightspark_ backwards on one lens of his glasses so that he had to read it every moment until he hit the wash racks. Rung stole back the paint and wrote _darling_ and _sweetspark_ and _gorgeous_ everywhere he could reach on Whirl’s belly, where his cockpit blocked the view.

It was a reminder they were courting--properly courting. If it went well, they’d someday paint love letters all around the spiraling iris into one another’s spark chambers. Reasons and promises.

Still too soon for that, but it gave an intimate sense to the paint battle. Who could write the sweetest words--who could shape the prettiest glyphs. The brush _tickled_ , though, and they were both sobbing with laughter by the time the words broke down into loving doodles.

It was almost tragic to wash the paint away, but at least it gave Rung an excuse to buff and polish Whirl once again. By the time they left the washracks, they both gleamed.

“I suppose, if I’m to court you properly, I ought to walk you back to your room.” Rung frowned. “We aren’t technically supposed to share quarters until we’ve written the first line.” He hadn’t slept in his own quarters since the slave-coding had imprinted on Whirl. He didn’t particularly _want_ to, but he did want to court Whirl properly.

Whirl rolled his optic. “You really _are_ old-fashioned.” He shook his helm and offered Rung an elbow. “How about I walk you home this time?”

Instead of tucking his arm against Whirl’s, Rung slipped his entire frame in the gap, settling Whirl’s claw against his hip. “I’d be honored, treasure.”

He rested his helm against Whirl’s chest and let his optics dim. With Whirl’s arm securing him, he knew he would be safe; no one would bother him, and he wouldn’t have to worry about their path. It felt as if he was floating alongside him, still warm and fresh from the wash and the wax.

It wasn’t until they came to a stop and he stumbled that he realized he’d fallen into a light recharge.

“I can’t believe you sleep in your office,” Whirl said. “Need me to tuck you in, Rung?”

“Just a kiss good night, please,” Rung murmured, tilting his helm up to smile at him. “I adore you, treasure.”

Whirl’s plating heated where their frames met. “Kiss good night?”

Rung hummed in affirmation. He reached up to stroke the side of Whirl’s helm and got up on his tiptoes, encouraging him to stoop low enough that Rung could press a kiss to each pedipalp. Whirl ran a claw along the side of Rung’s face, and he twisted to kiss that, too, setting off Whirl’s cooling fans.

“Sleep well, starlight.” Rung grinned up a Whirl, enjoying the flattered teek of Whirl’s field. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. We were gonna have another date at Swerve’s.”

“I look forward to it.” Rung squeezed Whirl’s claw and turned to enter his door code. Whirl hovered behind him until he’d stepped through the door.

“Hey, uh, Rung?” Whirl’s voice pitched high with nervousness. “You know that I--I adore you, too, right?”

Rung’s spark burned in his chest, straining toward Whirl. He didn’t trust his voice; it was all he could do to offer a shy smile and nod.

Whirl looked relieved. “Good. ‘Cuz I do. And I hope you sleep well, too, okay? G’night.”

Before Rung could reply, Whirl had transformed and taken off down the hall, leaving embarrassed joy in his wake. That joy lingered over Rung as he passed through the door and slipped into the small, quiet berthroom adjacent to his office.

Some part of his spark still strained toward Whirl’s, unhappy to be separated by most of the ship. He wanted to be pressed up close against Whirl’s chest, to feel the spark pulsing almost within reach.

As soon as he thought it, he pushed the notion from his head. He’d seen what his spark could do to Whirl’s; he wouldn’t do that to him again, no matter what he wanted.

Sinking down on his berth, Rung curled up close to the wall. Without Whirl’s warm presence guarding him, he felt uncomfortably exposed. In the memories, Whirl had guarded him against the voices of past Masters tearing down the few good memories he’d had before the war.

His spark ached. In those moments, he’d felt--more than whole. He’d felt as if he could sense every micrometer of Whirl’s care and affection. He’d never had a pleasant merge, but Whirl had shared that peaceful moment in his beautiful shop, and he’d felt--he’d felt--calm.

And maybe more than a little bit in love.

As Rung drifted off into recharge, however, he had no Whirl to drive back the voices that had contaminated his memories. No one would stand up for him.

He was alone.

***

Whirl couldn’t have said _what_ prompted him to jump out of bed in the middle of a solid defrag cycle, but it sure felt like somebody had screamed at him. No--it sounded more like he could hear Rung screaming.

“Just some bad memory feedback.” His claws clicked anyway, and his plating rattled uncomfortably. It didn’t _feel_ like a nightmare--he still felt like he could hear Rung screaming, and he was definitely awake. “He’s fine.”

He’d relied on his gut too many times to believe that. Something wasn’t right. His spark twisted with worry.

“Maybe I should just check on him real quick.” Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Not creepy _at all_ to go over to Rung’s room when he should be sleeping. “Maybe just a ping.”

Yeah. If Rung didn’t answer the ping, he was probably asleep. If he needed help, he’d answer, right? Yeah, definitely.

Five kliks later, Whirl was still waiting on a response and still felt like he could hear Rung screaming. His gut said something was _definitely_ up, and he had the persistent sense that something was squeezing his spark. If it was a panic attack, well, Rung would know what to do anyway--and Whirl was roughly three thousand percent sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he saw with his own optic that Rung was safe and sound.

He set out for Rung’s office, his audials dialed up to their highest sensitivity as he flew through the halls. He heard a few couples clanging and several others self-servicing--really, Brainstorm? self-servicing while moaning about _quarks_? how much of a nerd could a mech _be_?--which would’ve been great gossip fodder if he were willing to stick around and take notes. The closer he got to Rung’s office, though, the fewer voices he heard. Rung was pretty damn isolated on this side of the ship; if he _had_ started screaming, damn near nobody would hear him.

Which wasn’t exactly comforting, since, as Whirl got closer, he actually _did_ hear screaming.

He knew that sound. He’d heard Rung scream too many times in the spark-merge as he watched mechs tear him apart. He knew that scream better than he ever wanted to.

Flying wasn’t fast enough. _Teleporting_ wouldn’t be fast enough. He transformed back to root mode at full speed and kicked down the door, guns at the ready. A quick sweep of the office showed nothing out of the ordinary, but Rung was still sobbing somewhere in the back.

Whirl couldn’t risk kicking down the door if Rung was right behind it, but it took for-fragging-ever for the piece of scrap door to open up, and he ended up wrenching it aside as soon as he could slip his claws in the gap.

Battle protocols fully online, it took only a split-second to identify Rung and--and the fact that Rung wasn’t being _attacked_. His optics were offline as if in recharge, but he was clawing at his armor, and cleaning fluid slicked his face. He’d been crying at least as long as Whirl had been awake--and Whirl had kept him waiting. Scrap. _Scrap._

“Rung, Rung, are you okay?” He offlined his weapons and dropped to the side of the berth. “Rung, wake up, I’m here, you’re safe.”

The moment Whirl’s claw brushed Rung’s cheek, he leapt back as if shocked, venting in hard enough that Whirl felt pulled forward. When Rung’s optics flickered on, they darted to scan every corner of the room. Whirl stepped back to give him some space, but Rung surged forward with another sob, latching onto his arm and holding tight.

“Don’t let them hurt me,” he begged. “Please, _please_ don’t let them hurt me.”

Whirl clambered onto the berth, tucking Rung against his cockpit and stroking a gentle claw down Rung’s back before he remembered. Panic attack--firm, grounding touches. He squeezed Rung tight, and the anxiety immediately began to dissipate from his field.

“I got you,” Whirl said, trying to keep his voice quiet. No overstimulation. That was another step. “I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you ever again, okay?”

Rung buried his face against Whirl’s neck and keened with distress. Whirl tucked his helm against Rung’s back, hoping to keep him grounded, make him feel safe--he put all his energy into make his EM field as calming as possible.

After several breems of shaking, Rung’s ventilations finally evened out. His voice was raw with static when he finally spoke. “Thank you.”

“Scrap the proper courtship stuff, okay?” Whirl set about massaging the knotted cables in Rung’s back and sides. “I’ve got an extra berth if you wanna sleep separate, but I’m not--I’m not leaving you to have nightmares all the damn time. Okay?”

Rung nodded weakly. “All right.”

Whirl vented hard with relief. “You wanna go back to my place, or do you think you can get some recharge here if we’re snuggly and stuff?”

“I think a short walk would help clear my mind,” Rung admitted. “If you’re not too tired?”

“No way. Want an airlift?”

Rung’s smile would’ve been worth a hundred miles of flying, but he shook his head. “I’d rather walk with your arm around me again, if that’s all right?”

“It’d be my honor.” Whirl nuzzled the top of his head. “C’mon. I gotta get enough recharge tonight so I can be in top form for our date tomorrow.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan to "help" Rung does nothing of the sort. Whirl gets stepped on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains public humiliation and reenactment of past trauma.

The moment Whirl brought Rung through the doors, Swerve sent a databurst to Red. Next he sent private comms to anyone in the bar whose hailing frequency he knew--which was most of them, since he’d traded a free drink per code. [[Get Chromedome and Rewind out.]]

Chromedome might try to cover his tracks--might shake their hands and make them forget the whole damn thing ever happened. Rewind, on the other hand, was actually allergic to UV lights; Swerve wasn’t gonna risk his buddy’s health.

Step one of the plan, check. He covered his nervousness with a wide grin.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Whirl had a possessive arm around Rung’s shoulders. “Get me a brightspark for my brightspark.”

“Coming right up! What can I get you?” Swerve’s servos hovered over the additives, trying not to look over at Brainstorm as he hauled Chromedome out to show him some cool new gizmo, Rewind hot on their heels. Step two of the plan, check. [[We’ve gotta separate Whirl from Rung,]] Swerve commed. [[Battle stations, everyone.]]

Battle stations meant everyone had to act natural, which they sucked at--seriously, not a single mech on the ship could act natural when lives were on the line. But if Whirl noticed, he didn’t show it, and Rung was still leaning against Whirl’s chassis with dimmed optics.

“What I usually get,” Whirl answered.

“One, uh, brightspark, and one briffit n’ squean, then,” he said. “I’ll call you up when your order’s ready.”

The entire room turned to watch them get a booth in a secluded corner, cataloging the scratches and scuffs in Rung’s paintjob. Swerve turned back to his cocktail mixing, anxiety thrumming in his spark.

Red would get there soon. Then they could move on to step three.

***

Whirl settled Rung on his lap, keeping him tucked between his cockpit and the wall. Rung preferred the safety of confined spaces--having access routes cut off. And nobody was gonna get to him through Whirl.

“I can pay for my own drinks, you know.”

Whirl made a scoffing noise that would’ve made Chromedome green with envy. “Let me buy you a damn drink.”

Rung leaned his head against Whirl’s shoulder, and warmth spread from the point of contact. “I thought _I_ was supposed to be courting _you_.”

“Oh, hey, that reminds me.” Whirl fished around in his subspace and pulled out a datapad. “Which design do ya like better?”

Rung bent over the datapad, flicking through the images. “Are these all chronometers?”

“Damn right they are.” He’d cataloged the parts Rung had gifted him while he’d been snuffling in recharge. With a few planetside hops, he could get the materials to make something _really_ special. He’d drawn up schematics accordingly. Two different ship-shaped chronometers--the Lost Light and the Arc One--and a couple of classier models that looked like the kind of art he could picture in Rung’s office. Something he could use.

“I don’t know how I could possibly choose.” Rung touched the screen almost reverently--aha, the Lost Light chronometer. Whirl’d had a hunch he’d be into that one. “I love them all.”

“I’ll make all of ‘em, then,” Whirl said, nuzzling the top of Rung’s helm.

“Treasure, that’s far too much--”

“Nope, too late. You said you wanted ‘em all.” Whirl’s optic curved into a grin. “You’re getting ‘em all.”

Rung shoved him playfully, and Whirl bumped him back. Nobody else would be able to hear Rung’s giggles.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously sweet on you.”

Before Rung could get into a sap battle with him, Swerve’s voice boomed across the room. “Whirl, your order’s up!”

“Send a--” Whirl swallowed the words _service droid_ before he could vocalize them. Yeah, no, not words that’d keep Rung in this good mood. “Oh, fine. Just a klik.”

“I can get the drinks,” Rung offered, and Whirl gently scooted him off his lap and onto the bench proper.

“Nuh uh. You just sit pretty, and I’ll go take care of the grunt work, okay?” Primus, he wanted to kiss the smile on Rung’s face. He traced a gentle claw along his cheek instead, stilling when Rung turned to kiss it.

“You take such good care of me.”

At this praise, Whirl puffed up with pride, flaring his plating. “Only the best for my courtmate!” He eased away from Rung, reluctant to break contact. “I’ll be back in a flash, okay?”

Rung’s face was soft with affection. “I’ll be waiting.”

Whirl practically skipped to the bar, pushing through the crowd between him and Swerve. Why the frag was the bar so busy at this hour? “Hey, lemme through, I gotta get my courtmate his drink.”

“Courtmate?”

Ah, frag, Red Alert. “Yeah, we’re courting. You can be jealous later--he’s waiting for his drink.”

It suddenly struck him that the EM fields pressed against his were harder to read than usual. He’d expect this kind of tension in the trenches, not at a bar. Looking around, he saw a lot of optics on him and far too few drinks in hand. His spark sank. A bar fight was great fun--usually he’d love a brawl--but Rung was still wound up and scared.

He raised his claws in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner. “Hey, I’m not lookin’ for trouble today. If you guys are lookin’ for a fight, I’ll have to take a raincheck.”

Swerve’s visor went bright, and the EM fields surrounding him spiked with panic. Okay, so maybe the claws weren’t reassuring.

Before he could say anything else, though, Swerve slammed a fist on a button, and the lights went out. Before Whirl could adjust, at least three separate mechs tackled him to the floor.

Fight back and go to the brig. Go to the brig, and Rung’s alone with nightmares and panic attacks. Uh uh, no way. Whirl tried to shove off his attackers without actually hurting them.

“What the frag are you doing?” he demanded. “I told you I’m not lookin’ for a--”

The lights came back on, but they were all wrong. Whirl could see old battle scars glowing on the parts of his frame that hadn’t been wholesale replaced. For some reason, he felt panic clawing at the base of his spark.

Before he could figure out what the hell kind of stunt Swerve was pulling, the entire room gasped. Whirl twisted to follow their gaze, and his spark stilled. Rung looked back at them with wide, terrified optics, the datapad cracked between stiff and unmoving fingers.

But what held the room’s attention had to be the scars.

Everybody had a few, but Rung’s entire frame glowed. Only half his helm remained dark--the part that Ratchet had rebuilt entirely after Swerve had blown it off.

The worst scars were carved into his interface array. Crude glyphs marking him as an object, a possession.

“Oh no,” he whispered, and the silence in the room made his broken voice sound unnaturally loud.

“Rung!” A pede came down to crush Whirl’s throat before he could shout again, and he fought to get free. More mechs piled on him, and one even snapped something to the back of his neck that made all his limbs go unresponsive.

An inhibitor claw. The kind that numbed the body from that point down. Whirl tried to keep his ventilations steady, tried to _think_ , tried to figure out a way to get back to Rung, to protect Rung--

Rung curled in on himself to guard his spark chamber and interface array, exposing the back of his neck--where so many mnemosurgery scars dotted the mesh it made Whirl’s fuel tanks churn. Rung realized this too late, slapping a hand over the damage to hide it.

“What did he _do_ to you?” someone shouted, and all hell broke loose.

The mechs not pinning Whirl swarmed Rung, overwhelming him, running servos all over him and twisting him around to look for damage.

“Leave him alone!” Whirl tried to shout, but the pede against his vocalizer reduced it to static. He sent a databurst over short-range comms expressing his need to go to Rung, to be with Rung.

“Like Pit are we letting you anywhere near him!” Oh, scrap, that was Fort Max. Whirl had last seen that kind of fury prior to getting impaled before, and that was not a scenario he wanted to repeat.

[[Ratch, help,]] Whirl commed. [[They’ve got me pinned and somebody needs to get Rung out of here.]]

[[Out of where?]]

[[Swerve’s.]]

***

Rung yanked away from the hands grabbing at him. “Whirl!” He staggered to his feet on the bench and pressed his back flush against the wall as if it could protect him. It couldn’t protect him. _Whirl_ protected him.

Whirl, whose helm crunched beneath Fortress Maximus’s pede.

“Don’t hurt him!”

More hands pawed at him, dragging him away from the wall, dragging him into the heart of the mob.

“You don’t gotta worry about him anymore.”

“I don’t know how he thought he could keep this secret.”

“You’re never going near him again.”

“We’ve got you now.”

Rung shoved them back, but there were at least twenty of them reaching to grab at him, examine his scars, inspect him like the fragtoy he was.

“Whirl!” Rung shouted again, his voice cracking. “Whirl!”

Static hissed and spat from Whirl’s unmoving form on the floor. They’d grounded him--Rung could see the inhibitor claw lodged in his neck. Whirl couldn’t come to his rescue. Not this time.

“What’s this say?” A hand traced a glyph carved into his interface panel, and Rung couldn’t pull back, had been trained to be still and obedient when touched there or risk having it ripped off entirely. His attacker sounded out the word--an Old Cybertronian word that meant something so crude and base he flinched at the sound of it. He could see the moment they all looked it up. The moment they understood what he was.

Cyclonus repeated the word with horror. The word rang like a death knell. Whirl lay bleeding on the floor.

His fault. They’d found out exactly what he was. Whirl had tried to shelter him, but they knew, now. They knew what he was and they wanted him for themselves. They knew what he was and they were going to treat him accordingly.

He went limp in their arms, staring off into the vague distance as they turned him over, touching every mark of shame, undoing all the centuries and millennia of work he’d done to rebuild his value. At least he’d had some time to pretend.

It was a party like every other party he’d attended. His chest plates began to initialize automatically, but he overrode them. No. _No_. Let them tear him open if they wanted him so badly.

They could have his frame. There was nothing he could do to stop them from enjoying him. But they couldn’t have his spark. Not this time.

***

By the time Red Alert pushed through the crowd, Rung had relaxed into their arms, but he wasn’t responding to questions. “Somebody get Chromedome back in here!” he shouted.

“Can’t believe he’d do something like this,” someone said, and Red almost agreed. Usually Rewind kept Chromedome on the straight and narrow. Apparently Whirl had coerced him into making just one more bad decision. And Rung had paid the price.

“Rung,” he said, tipping Rung’s face up. The optics wouldn’t focus on him. “Rung, look at me.”

Cleaning fluid began to pool behind the glasses, and Rung remained still and silent. Red took a detailed inventory of scars as he tried to parse Rung’s chaotic EM field. The resignation when he accidentally brushed against Rung’s interface hatch made him sick.

“I’m going to kill him,” Red Alert muttered. “I’m going to _kill_ him and dump him out the airlock and you’ll never see his sorry hide again.”

Rung offlined his optics and whimpered, grief ripping through his field.

“Get Whirl out of here,” he shouted. “Take him to the brig. Ultra Magnus can read him his rights when he’s not an immediate threat to one of our own.”

“You’re not taking Whirl _anywhere_.” Ratchet’s fury flooded the room. “Take off that inhibitor claw, and _put Rung down immediately_.” Everyone had heard that voice in the medbay; everyone obeyed the medic instinctively. Red had nearly dropped Rung before he caught himself.

The crowd parted before Ratchet, who practically vibrated with rage. Red Alert clutched Rung to his chest. “He’s been hurt.”

“Which is why I told you to put him down.” Ratchet’s hands balled into fists. “I’ll use a sedative if I have to, but you _will_ let him go.”

Red Alert heard the moment that some fool mech actually released Whirl’s inhibitor claw and braced himself for bloodshed. When Whirl staggered to his pedes, though, he ignored the mechs who’d attacked him and made a beeline for Rung.

“Rung, sweetspark, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Whirl’s claws hovered over Rung, terror crackling in his field. “I won’t let them hurt you. You’re okay.”

“Won’t let _us_ hurt him?” Red Alert demanded.

“Yes.” Ratchet’s voice had never sounded so cold. “Give Rung to him _now_.”

He was so startled by the vehemence in Ratchet’s voice that he actually relinquished his hold on Rung. He regretted it the moment he came back to his senses, but Whirl had Rung cradled close against him, running those brutal claws up and down his back.

“Shh, shh.” Whirl sank to the floor, contorting to surround Rung on all sides with flared, spiky armor. “Shh, I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

  


***

Whirl barely felt Ratchet starting to patch him up--tuned out the yelling and arguing taking place above him.

“Rung, brightspark, starlight,” he pleaded, but Rung’s face remained slack; Rung was somewhere very far away. That was the face he’d seen in the memories--the face of resignation Rung had worn when he stretched himself out on display for his Masters.

On a deeper level than EM field, Whirl could feel Rung’s absolute despair.

“You’re safe,” Whirl said, nuzzling against the top of Rung’s helm. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Whirl, stay still.” Ratchet pinched his audial. “You’re bleeding all over him.”

“He won’t answer,” Whirl said, and he had to consciously stop his plating from rattling. He didn’t look up--didn’t leave any opening for anyone to hurt Rung. “Tailgate, what do you do for your panic attacks?”

Tailgate squeaked when he heard his name, probably ducking behind Cyclonus. “What?”

“You get panicky!” Whirl wanted to wave a claw to emphasize his point, but like Pit was he letting Rung go right now. “What do you need when you get panicky?”

“I, uh. Hugs are good.”

“I’m hugging him already!” Whirl’s voice went scratchy with panic. When Rung whimpered, he dropped his voice immediately, trying to make his engine rumble in a low, soothing way. “What else can I do? We talked about panic attacks, but this one’s _really bad_.”

Silence answered him. He resettled so that his cockpit rather than his helm was guarding Rung’s body, then looked around. Everyone but Ratchet was gaping at him.

Ratchet took the opportunity to spritz him in the not-face with some nanites.

“What? What’d I say?” He didn’t have the processor power to divert to figuring out why a ship full of mechs who’d been friendly had up and attacked the sweetest bot in the galaxy. He needed to run down the list of things Rung had said would help.

Seal off access points, check. Keep him grounded with firm, nonsexual touch, check. Make him feel defended and protected, hopefully check. Keep audial and visual stimulation to a minimum--well, at least everyone had stopped shouting? Frag.

If they were back in their room, he could lock the door and wrap him up in blankets and get him some energon candy or something. Maybe some rust sticks. Maybe a massage would help?

“I really need to get him back to our habsuite.” How to pick him up without making it worse? “Anybody have an extra blanket I could wrap him up in?” That’d dampen sounds at least a little, and it’d be cozier and more confining than his spindly little arms.

“You’re not taking him anywhere,” Red Alert said, optics narrowed. “Not after what you did to him.”

“After what I--?” Whirl froze as the pieces fell into place. It felt like someone had dropped his spark in ice water. “You think--you think I did this to him.”

They looked nonplussed. Only Cyclonus looked away and shook his head.

Whirl sucked his EM field in close to his armor, not wanting Rung to feel the way he felt. He turned his optic away from them, staring at the floor. A few spatters of energon marked where they’d curbstomped him. He felt dizzy and sick. Sure, he’d been kind of an aft. He liked fighting, so sue him. The senate had made him into a weapon, but he’d made himself into the best damn weapon out there.

But he didn’t even like playing with his prey. He’d tried for all of five seconds to get that one Seacon to say something funny, and he hadn’t even tortured him or anything. Unless his Optimus impression counted as torture.

Rung stirred, and he snapped immediately out of those thoughts. “Sweetspark, you’re here, you’re safe.”

“Like anyone’s safe with you!”

Whirl vented hard as the shout made Rung flinch and hide his face against Whirl’s abdomen. He kept his own voice low and painstakingly level. “For the love of Primus, keep your voices down.”

“We saw the scars, Whirl. You think you can keep this up?”

“Those scars are millions of years old,” Ratchet said. “Whirl had nothing to do with them.”

“High command is so keen on protecting this aft! What’s he got on you?” Whirl didn’t recognize the voice, didn’t bother looking up. “Why are you defending him? We all saw him haul Rung out of here, blitzed out of his processor. And then he locked him up for two decaorns, and you did _nothing_.”

“Nothing?” Ratchet’s voice was dangerous. “I checked in on them twice an orn.”

“Yeah, and so did Chromedome!” somebody else snapped. “We saw the scars on the back of his neck. Are you gonna make us forget? Pretend like it never happened?”

“Chromedome was working with us in a medical capacity.”

“Sure he was. What kind of medical capacity?”

“Patient confidentiality dictates--”

“Shh!” Whirl waved a claw at them. “Shut up! He’s saying something, and I can’t hear him.”

“Home.” Rung’s voice went straight through his chassis and into his spark. “Please. Home.”

“Yeah, sure, we can go home.”

“I already told you--you’re not taking him anywhere!”

“Rung’s the one who gets a say, and he just--”

“I didn’t hear a damn thing!”

Whirl’s engine growled with frustration and hurt, and Rung whimpered again. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Whirl rubbed a claw against the hip joint he liked to have massaged. “It’s okay, brightspark. You’re good.”

“They hurt you.” Rung’s grief and fear rolled against him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Me, hurt? Nah, I’m just fine. Promise.” He clamped one piece of armor down to make sure he wouldn’t see the patch job Ratchet had done there. “Ratchet’s here. Got me all sorted out.”

“Said they’d kill you.” Rung’s hands curled against his front, digging into a transformation seam on his belly.

“Well, they could _try_ ,” Whirl said, trying to make Rung laugh, but he started sobbing instead.

A hand settled on Whirl’s shoulder, and he flared his plating with a hiss.

“Whirl, I’m sorry, but I need to take a look at him.” Oh, Ratchet. Just Ratchet.

“Rung, can Ratch look you over?” He kept his voice as quiet and calm as he could. It was a damn good idea to make sure none of those afts had hurt Rung while pawing at him, but if Rung didn’t want to, he wouldn’t.

When Rung replied, his voice was scratchy with static. “Will you hurt him?”

“Hurt who, sweetspark?” Whirl ran a soothing claw up and down Rung’s spinal strut. “I’ll hurt anybody you ask me to.”

Ratchet glared at that, but Whirl had been hoping to prompt amusement from Rung--confusion washed over him instead.

“If I submit to an examination,” Rung said, carefully spacing out each syllable with so much effort even Whirl felt exhausted, “will you hurt Whirl?”

“Nobody’s going to hurt Whirl if you let me look you over,” Ratchet answered. “Up you get.”

Something didn’t sit right with Whirl about Rung’s field--too much resignation and despair--but he released Rung the moment he nudged at Whirl’s arms and watched him stagger mechanically to his pedes.

***

Rung stood, exposed, in the center of the bar. His optics locked on the floor, and he held his arms away from his frame. He’d submitted to inspections before.

Optics roved over his frame until his plating squirmed. They could see every brand, every violation. Perhaps they’d be kinder than his past Masters, since they didn’t have the code at their disposal. But he was badly outnumbered on a ship in a distant galaxy, and he had Whirl to protect.

They didn’t need the code to control him.

Someone read aloud a glyph he remembered a Functionist carving into his shoulder, and he flinched away from the rage and disgust that filled every EM field in the room. Someone turned furious optics on Whirl--Whirl, who had hidden such a valuable fragtoy away from the crew. Whirl, who had protected him when he had only half a spark and nothing at all to offer.

“Don’t hurt him!” Rung pleaded, scrambling to get between the angry mech and Whirl. “Please!”

“After what he did to you?”

Rung hesitated, processor stalling out on the sentence. He couldn’t make sense of it. “What?”

“Look at you!” The mech--whose name eluded Rung as he swept a disgusted servo in a gesture indicating Rung himself--snapped, his voice shaking with fury. “He tore you apart! How can you defend him?”

“These are old scars,” Ratchet said, flicking a bolt at him. “Leave them both alone!”

“I’ll take Whirl to the brig in _pieces_ if I have to!” somebody else shouted--somebody in the back of the crowd. A thrum of agreement answered him. “Unless you can prove those scars are as old as you’re saying, he’s not getting out of this bar with those claws attached.”

Rung stood sharply, spreading his arms out in front of his courtmate. “Ratchet can prove it.”

“Rung, you have a right to confidentiality.”

He could have laughed, but he didn’t. They knew what he was; they knew he had no rights at all. “Tell them the truth, Ratchet.”

Whirl stiffened behind him, and Rung fumbled backwards to pet his helm without looking away from the mech who’d been intimidating his courtmate. Ratchet just vented and pushed himself to his feet. “How much of the truth?”

Rung’s optics burned so hot they probably shone white with terror. “All of it.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swerve does research. Rung acquiesces to the end of his new life. Whirl quotes literature.

As Rung held himself out on display--optics downcast, fear and shame and resignation flooding his field--Swerve had the horrible sinking feeling that he’d made the wrong call yet again.

Swerve had never seen so many scars on one bot before. He’d expected a scar from the headshot and the ripped-out thumb, and he’d been scared stiff that they’d find a few pinpricks on Rung’s neck. Instead the UV lights lit up more of his frame than not, and the scars Swerve could make out were more hideous than any on the battle-hardened warriors surrounding him.

Whirl was a sick fragger, no doubt about it, but Swerve had added public humiliation to the list of Rung’s hardships, and he felt like scrap.

“Take a look at this.” Ratchet lifted Rung’s hand, indicating the thumb Max had ripped off during the hostage situation. If the rest of Rung’s scars glowed, this one _burned_ \--it was brighter than all of them put together. “See how the weld line at the base of his thumb is that brightest spot on his hand?”

Swerve nodded along with the rest of the crowd. That was pretty much grade-A stating of the obvious.

“And that one’s brighter than the scar where Cyclonus tore off his arm, see?”

He indicated another weld line, and Swerve couldn’t exactly see how it looked any different from the thumb from his spot standing on top of the bar, but it did look a hell of a lot brighter than the other scars on Rung’s arm.

“Any guesses why those scars are so much brighter?” Ouch, talk about a patronizing tone. “It’s because _they’re new_.”

“No way.” A bot in back said. He was out of Swerve’s line of sight, but he suspected he was also the source of the angry engine growling that had started to pick up. “Rung didn’t even see any time on the front lines. He’s a fraggin’ doctor, not a soldier.”

And those glyphs sure as Pit didn’t say anything a run-of-the-mill interrogator would know. Swerve sorta wanted to purge the definitions from his database and act like he’d never read them. Who would do something like that to someone like Rung?

“These scars predate the war,” Ratchet said. “They survived the war _because_ he didn’t see any action. Didn’t get his frame upgraded or replaced or anything.”

“Yeah right,” someone scoffed. “Prove it!”

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose and looked very much like he was praying for patience--but Swerve kept his mouth shut on that thought, since the docbot wouldn’t take that kindly at all. “All right, fine. Whirl, stand up.”

Whirl got shakily to his pedes, his optic still fixed on Rung. The undivided attention gave Swerve the heebie jeebies, but Rung didn’t even look up under the scrutiny.

“Rung, you okay?” Whirl asked, his voice soft and--and almost scared? Probably because he knew the jig was up.

Rung said nothing, and Whirl clicked his claws, attention unwavering.

“What’d you need from me, doc?”

“Well, we have two options. I show them how all your old scars are still brighter than Rung’s, and they keep doubting anyway, or--”

Whirl’s focus snapped to Ratchet. “Make a new weld line on me.”

That seemed to throw Ratchet for a loop. “What?”

“Put it right next to an old scar,” Whirl said. He jabbed a claw at his abdomen. “I should have one under my cockpit from getting impaled. That one’s pretty new. And I think I’ve got a big ol’ cut somewhere to the left of that? A ‘con got a bit too friendly with a sword. So if you make a new scar there, they’ll see with their own optics.”

“Whirl, I’m not going to scar you just--”

“Doc, I’m tough stuff. I’ll be fine.” Whirl looked over at Rung again--and this time Rung was looking back up at him. “Rung needs to get out of here. Whatever’s the fastest way to get him somewhere safe.”

Swerve grumbled under his breath. Safe! Pfft, his bar was the safest place on the ship.

“Whirl, no.” Rung’s voice was almost inaudible, his optics gone white with terror. “They know what I am. It’s too late.”

“You are _not_ what they did to you!” Swerve had expected Whirl to shout, to strike, but his voice was steady and low and fervent and--and reassuring? Something wasn’t adding up. Whirl’s optic cycled wide. “Rung, is that what this is about? You think they’re--” He swept his optic around at everyone. “--I won’t let anyone hurt you, Rung. It’s not going to happen again.”

Rung made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been a sob. “They know what I am,” he repeated. Behind his glasses, his optics pooled with cleaning fluid. “They know what I am.”

Whirl’s claws clicked furiously, but they remained at his sides. “Doc, make the weld line so we can get the frag outta here.”

Ratchet vented heavily, but he pulled a welding torch out of his medkit. Too fast for Swerve to track, Rung had thrown himself on Ratchet with a shout that made the entire crowd stumble back.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt him if I complied!” Rung scrambled for the torch, vents panicked and wild. “I’ll tell them where I got every scar. I’ll tell them everything. _Don’t hurt him_. I’ll--I’ll do anything, please, don’t hurt him!”

Something about the way Rung inflected the word _anything_ made Swerve’s plating crawl. Worse than that was the way Whirl stooped beside him and hovered, almost like he was afraid to reach out and touch him. It didn’t jive with the possessive touches and the shaking and--

“Rung, please, you gotta listen to me.” Whirl held out a claw, stopping a handsbreadth away from Rung’s shoulder. “Sweetspark, please. Trust me.”

At those words, Rung went still. He released his hold on a disgruntled-looking Ratchet and sank heavily to the floor. After a deep vent, he extended an arm. “I think it would be more effective to demonstrate on me.”

That was enough to get whispers running through the crowd. Swerve looked down at his own scars and felt his spark beginning to sink all the way down to his pedes. A quick search confirmed it, and he felt like tar stuck to somebody’s wheel.

“Let’s not be hasty,” he said, hopping down from the counter. “Nobody’s gotta get fresh scars. I, uh. I suggest everybody take a look at section 294 of the med files.”

Optics went unfocused around the room as they did. He could tell when they found the line he was talking about because EM fields everywhere lit up with the same guilt, shame, and embarrassment currently doing a number on his own spark.

Section 294: When assessing scar tissue, spectral analysis can offer a general idea of chronology. Under UV lighting, older scars will appear faded, while newer ones will be much more noticeable.

These _were_ old scars. Swerve flexed his servos nervously, making and releasing fists as he tried to keep his cool.

“Right, everybody?” He said. “No need for unnecessary welding?”

The crowd shifted awkwardly. Red’s face had gone slack with horror and embarrassment.

Rung turned to look at Swerve as if he’d never seen him before. “What do I owe you?” he asked. His EM field reeked of relief and despair alike, and Swerve backpedaled to escape it.

“Uh, I really have no idea what you’re talking about,” Swerve insisted. “I--I think this was all a big misunderstanding--”

Someone in the crowd stepped forward, but Swerve only caught a glimpse of blue plating in his peripheral vision before Rung threw himself between the other bot and Whirl. His plating rattled, but his entire frame stood unwavering and resolute. It was the sort of expression that would fit a last stand, not--not this.

“I said I’d do anything,” Rung said. He pressed back up against Whirl, who towered over him. His arms remained spread wide as if acting as a shield. “You know what I am. I understand. But I’d _die_ before I let you hurt Whirl.”

Nobody flinched harder than Whirl.

“You keep saying we know what you are, but--” The mech speaking broke off as Rung turned, and Swerve could see his optics narrowing as he tried to read a glyph carved into the side of Rung’s neck. He sounded it out, and Rung recoiled.

Swerve looked that word up, too. Definition: a drone marked for decommissioning, typically slated to be siphoned of all useful resources. Worth only the energon left in its tanks.

“Yes, I know what I am.” Rung’s voice was agony itself, weak with static. “I _know_.”

Whirl’s arm settled around Rung’s chest, guarding his spark chamber, and Rung reached shaky hands up to remove his glasses.

“When the slave-coding reactivated, I was afraid,” Rung said, his watering optics fixed on the spectacles in his palm. “I knew I’d imprinted on Whirl. After my experiences with the Senate and the Functionists, I thought I knew what to expect.” His lips trembled, but he managed a crooked smile. “But Whirl did everything he could to protect me from the code. He was even willing to--” His voice cracked, torn through with static. “--to do the unthinkable. Because the only way to break the coding is for my Master to die.”

Swerve’s fuel tank felt like it was curdling. They’d made fun of Whirl fragging up Brainstorm’s new invention for weeks. And apparently it’d been a suicide attempt.

To protect Rung.

Scrap. _Scrap_.

“That’s not a price I would be willing to pay,” Rung continued. “I would sooner die than live as I did under the Functionists, but I _will not_ allow harm to come to my courtmate.” He twisted his shaking servos together. “I put myself at your mercy.”

And suddenly, with a sickening swoop of horror, Swerve understood Rung’s panic. Everybody grabbing for him. Everybody examining him. Everybody threatening to get Whirl out of the picture.

The room swayed, and Swerve tried to catch himself on one of the spinning stools by the bar to no avail. He slumped back against the bar itself and tried not to purge.

Look what he’d done. _Look_ what he’d done.

“I swear on my bar that I--” Swerve’s voice lurched, seasick and unsteady. “I--Rung, I swear, I thought he was hurting you, I thought he saved Rewind to get a favor in with Chromedome or he just took advantage of you and you were old-fashioned and--” Primus, the rumors each sounded more ridiculous than the last when he looked Rung in the optic. “We just--we were trying--” He offlined his optics and vented. “Skids, for the love of engex, hit the fragging lights already.”

***

Rung’s knees gave out as soon as the lights came back on, but Whirl’s arm against his chest steadied him. He looked down at himself and saw the now-invisible scars in his mind’s eye. The sigil marking him as a capacitor--a waste receptacle for unwanted charge--an interface aide--was hidden beneath Whirl’s claw. They’d seen it before Whirl could shield him, though. They knew what he was.

“I’m not going to let them hurt you,” Rung insisted, running statistics in the back of his mind.

He’d catered to larger parties in less comfortable bars. It--it wouldn’t be as bad as it could have been. As bad as it had been. The Senate and Functionists combined had numbered close to two hundred, so that wouldn’t be a drastic change, either. He’d enjoyed four million years of freedom, which was more than he had expected during his time under his Masters’ heels.

This time he didn’t even have the code. They couldn’t force him to transform or fry him internally. Ratchet’s medical care was legendary, so he’d probably be patched up after each session, too.

He’d survived them for hundreds of vorns. To protect Whirl, he would bow his head and do it again.

“Rung, you’re safe.” Whirl’s voice was close to his audial, his engine rumbling in a way that made Rung’s spark ache. “You’re safe, I promise. We’re both okay.”

Rung’s servos shook as he brought them up to hug Whirl’s claw against him. The words didn’t register--just the reassuring tone hiding Whirl’s fear. Fear for Rung’s wellbeing.

When Rung scanned the crowd, looking for the mech who’d step forward to claim him first, he hesitated. The faces blurred, unreadable--no one approached him. They knew that he was a thing to be claimed, to be taken, to be used. He’d had the reminders carved into him as deep as his spark chamber.

A mockery of engagement painting. One ring listed what he meant to each of them: a toy, a drone, a drinking vessel--one had carved _nothing at all_ hard enough that it dented down into the next ring and pinched whenever the plating spiraled open. Another ring had listed his more appealing qualities: well-trained, broken in, always eager and ready to go, obedient, aware of his place. He could feel the words pulsing right up against his soul. He’d thought they would fade with time, but he’d never seen himself under UV light.

They’d marked him, and they’d marked him _forever_.

When no one stepped forward, Rung started to shake. His Masters had forced him to beg when the mood struck them. They had waited, quiet and still and watching from all corners of the room. Even with the coding gone, he felt the urge to abase himself at their pedes and await judgment.

But Whirl’s claw steadied him, and he didn’t have the code lighting fire in his circuits, so he held still, not so much as venting. His frame felt cold, anyway--there was no heat to flush from his systems. Venting meant nothing. Movement meant nothing. He could not change his fate.

He was almost relieved when Swerve stepped forward. The dread of waiting for punishment could be as bad as the punishment itself.

“Rung, I’m so sorry.” Swerve held out a glass of Rung’s favorite high-grade. “You get drinks on the house for the rest of the quest, okay?”

Rung cycled his optics and restarted his audials, certain he’d misheard. “Would you like me to feed you?” His voice sounded almost lost.

Swerve’s expression faltered, and Rung tried--Primus, did he try--to parse what exactly the expression meant, but his helm was too full of fog. Only the arm tightening against his chest stopped him from obeying the implied order on autopilot.

“I’ll feed him.” Whirl’s voice was soft and warm and Rung relaxed minutely, instinctively, against his frame. “Give it here.”

Rung almost objected--Whirl was hardly a drone, hardly meant to be feeding other mechs--but then he saw Whirl taking a sip with a narrowed optic.

“Okay, it’s clean. Sweetspark, here you go.” The corner of the cube hovered just before Rung, within easy reach.

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re trying to make it up to you,” Whirl said. “And the drink’s clean, so you should have some. You’re running low, right?”

Not exceptionally low, but certainly he had enough room in his tanks that the scent of sweetened high-grade got his attention. He was loathe to let go of claw against his spark, though--loathe to expose himself or relinquish Whirl. “I don’t understand.” He sounded shakier this time.

“Rung, nobody’s going to hurt you or Whirl.” It took him a much longer moment than it should have to identify Ratchet’s face and voice. “If they lay a hand on either of you--” His optics narrowed as they refocused on Whirl. “--unprovoked, at least--they’re going straight to the brig.”

Rung tried to speak, but his voxcoder fizzled. Whirl’s support was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I think he needs to sit down.” Whirl’s voice made Rung’s optics offline, sinking back into the comfort of his EM field. “Make way!”

Rung relaxed in his arms as Whirl gathered him up, resting his head against Whirl’s shoulder. His head spun, leaving him dizzy and sick and giddy and relieved all at once. The world beyond Whirl fell away, and he eagerly curled up in the narrow gap between Whirl and the wall when they settled into a booth.

“I got you, Rung,” Whirl murmured, tipping his chin up and helping him swallow the engex with an unreasonably gentle claw against his throat. “As you defended me, so I will defend you,” he added, his EM field brimming over with affection. “No spark could mean more; you alone are irreplaceable. I would guard you with my life.”

Rung melted against Whirl, letting his optics offline. He remembered reading that line to Whirl in the medbay--remembered feeling moved beyond words at the magnitude of the vow. In the period the text was set in, it had been a proposal--a weighty one.

“I would guard you with mine,” Rung answered. The engex rose again to his lips, and he took a deep sip of it, enjoying the way it sparkled all the way down to his fuel tank. Whirl made him feel like that.

“I know, brightspark, bravespark, I know.” Whirl’s voice seemed overfull with wonder. After a moment, he reset his vocalizer. “But I’d rather you live.”

Rung snorted after Whirl lowered the engex. “I’m a--” The word he used had been scratched onto the inner wall of his spark chamber. In Neocybex, it would refer to a drone that, by all accounts, was worthless and fit for scrap, but was kept online because of a lack of other options. The last choice. The unwanted and only barely tolerated. “My life’s hardly worth protecting.”

Whirl set aside the glass and pulled Rung into a hug so tight he could feel the spark flickering in Whirl’s chest. “If there’s another life out there that’s worth more, I don’t know them. There’s not one spark in this whole universe more important than yours.”

Rung hesitated before onlining his optics. “I don’t remember that quote.”

Whirl huffed, his field flaring with embarrassment. “That’s because nobody’s said it before,” he said. “ _Probably_ because they hadn’t met you. You’re kinda inspiring.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung gets better, then worse. Whirl helps as best he can.

Swerve kept pouring drinks with shaking servos and rushing them over to Rung. He’d offered the same to Whirl--on the house, one night only--but Whirl had turned him down flat. If Rung wanted the comfort of getting totally starsabered for once, Whirl was totally behind that, but he wasn’t about to leave the both of them defenseless.

He kept running a claw up and down Rung’s side, but refocused his optic on Ratchet, who’d helped himself to the seat across the table. “What’s up, doc?”

Ratchet looked at Rung, who had practically melded with Whirl’s side. “Those scars are old, but I’d like to take a look at them. Do they give you any trouble?”

If Rung heard him, he didn’t make any sign of it. “He gets achy sometimes,” Whirl answered on his behalf. “Like when I commandeered the oil baths for him.”

Ratchet nodded. “I can’t make that go away entirely, but I might have some physical therapy exercises that would make spells like that less frequent, at least. Make sure he swings by the medbay later, okay?”

Whirl glanced down at Rung. “Maybe tomorrow, Ratch. I think we need to get back to our habsuite.”

“Date first,” Rung muttered, his hands tightening against Whirl’s armor. It was fragging adorable.

He could understand wanting to pretend like things were normal after something awful happened. “Sure. Date first.”

“And medbay first thing tomorrow,” Ratchet said. “I’ll have something for Rung’s hangover ready.”

As Rung drained another glass of brightspark, Whirl had to appreciate the doc’s foresight. “Thanks.”

Ratchet grunted as he slid out of the booth and got to his pedes. “I’m just glad you commed me.” He shot a dark look at Swerve, who flinched and nearly dropped the glass he was wiping down. “What a fragging mess.”

“Date,” Rung insisted, pressing his face into the side of Whirl’s cockpit.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re on a date.” It was a miracle Whirl managed to keep his laughter internal. “What do you wanna do for the date?”

Usually they built ships, but Rung was already too sloshed to handle the delicate pieces. Barring that, they talked--but Rung was still easing out of being nonverbal, and he probably wasn’t up for conversation.

Rung pushed a cracked datapad toward him. It took Whirl a moment to recognize it as the one Rung had been holding when the crowd jumped him. The concept sketches and schematics for Rung’s courting gift.

“Wanna watch me build a chronometer?” Whirl asked. When Rung nodded against him, field flaring with eager excitement, his optic curved into a grin. “Sure thing, Rung. Anything you want.”

***

It was unaccountably soothing watching Whirl work. Rung’s chin rested on the tabletop, optics fixed on the gears and cogs and--and whatever else he’d purchased for Whirl. The datapad had cracked, but Whirl didn’t seem to need so much as a glance at the schematics to replicate them.

Everything fit together in impossibly beautiful ways. Slow, precise work with painstaking attention to detail--despite the noise of the gathering crowd, Whirl’s focus never wavered.

Rung had only given the crowd peripheral notice, but his world was gradually opening up again as the panic attack left him. When he felt ready, he lifted his helm slightly to give them a closer look. Cyclonus and Tailgate sat across from them. Tailgate seemed completely absorbed in watching Whirl, but Cyclonus had his optics on Rung.

A quick test of his EM field told Rung he was concerned, though his face was unreadable in Rung’s current state.

Swerve sat on Tailgate’s other side, openly gaping at Whirl’s work. His mouth was moving, but Rung hadn’t yet unfiltered his audials; it was all a pleasant wash of noise, with no specific details breaking through. It might have seemed more pressing to remain hyperaware of his surroundings if Whirl hadn’t kept one claw massaging at his side even while working. With that comfortable, grounding pressure, it hardly seemed important.

Whirl would take care of him. Rung knew that down to his spark.

Still, the date had been his idea. He held in a groan as he started to stretch, his limbs reacting sluggishly. Whirl’s attention shifted from his work for the first time, that piercing yellow optic locking onto him.

“Hey, Rung.” Whirl’s voice always came through the filter; Rung began to let in the other sounds of the bar. “Feeling better?”

“I am somewhat recovered,” Rung answered. He heard Swerve vent a sigh of relief. “I apologize. I haven’t been especially entertaining tonight.”

Whirl shook a dismissive claw. “Not your job to entertain me,” he said. “I can keep myself plenty entertained. Oh, hey, how do you like your clock so far?”

Rung turned to look at it. It’d been only a few joors, and it was already taking shape. The Lost Light had an unconventional design for a ship, let alone a clock. “It’s perfect.” Rung offered Whirl his most spark-felt grin. “Thank you so much, treasure.”

Whirl puffed up his armor in delight at the pet name. It amazed Rung that he could still find so much satisfaction in a term of endearment--but Whirl more than deserved to be treasured, and it hardly seemed enough.

“Dearspark,” Rung said, reaching up to cup one side of Whirl’s helm. “Beloved, darling, I am immeasurably grateful to have you in my life.”

Whirl’s plating flushed even as he snorted. “I think my brightspark’s had too many brightsparks.”

“I _mean_ it,” Rung insisted. He tried to rise to his knees to press kisses to the sides of Whirl’s helm, but the room spun when he moved too sharply. Whirl caught him before he could slip, and he aimed for kissing Whirl’s cockpit instead. “Sweetspark, light of my spark.” He nuzzled the glass and giggled, tilting to look up at his courtmate’s optic. “Oh, my dear, my dearest Whirl, I treasure you so very much.”

“That is the sappiest thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Swerve said behind him, awestruck. “And I’ve seen Chromedome and Rewind get plastered together.”

“Hey, Rung, do you love Whirl?” Tailgate asked.

“Oh, yes, I most certainly do.” He didn’t look away from that unwavering gaze. “Whirl, you know that, right? I love you so much.”

“Okay, yeah, definitely starsabered.” Whirl looked away--turning to face Tailgate, perhaps. Rung went back to nuzzling his windshield. “Swerve, how overcharged do you think he is?”

“He’s not a big mech, but the brightspark’s only a little above midgrade,” Swerve answered. “He shouldn’t be this sloshed. Not yet.”

“I’m not--not _inebriated_ ,” Rung said, then frowned. “Somewhat intoxicated, perhaps, but hardly _sloshed_.”

“Whirl, you didn’t tell him you love him back,” Tailgate said. It seemed almost like a nonsequitur to Rung--they’d been talking about high-grade, hadn’t they? And before then--watches? Yes, there’d definitely been talk of watches.

Still, Whirl telling someone he loved them would be a momentous thing indeed. Rung twisted around to face Tailgate and the others while firmly tucking himself beneath Whirl’s arm. “Whirl loves someone?” he asked. “They’re very lucky, then.”

Whirl vented heavily and patted Rung’s helm, field full of exasperated affection. “Rung, you goof, _you’re_ the one I love.”

Rung reset his optics, then his audials. “What did you say?”

“I said,” Whirl leaned in close and dropped his voice, “I love _you_.”

Rung covered his face with his hands to hide the blush he felt rising in his cheeks. “Oh dear,” he said. “Oh my goodness.”

“Aww, look at how happy he is,” Tailgate sighed, and Rung twisted to hide his face against Whirl’s chest. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Rung couldn’t resist sneaking a kiss against Whirl’s chassis while his face was hidden. “I love you, too.” He felt giddy and free--in Whirl’s arms, he was most assuredly safe. The only hazards would come if they became separated. Logically, this meant that it was of pivotal importance to cinch his arms around Whirl’s waist. “I hope you know that I’m never going to let you go.”

“Rung, do I need to get you back to the habsuite?” Whirl sounded more amused than annoyed.

Rung tilted back just far enough to offer him a coy look. “Would you like to work off some of my charge?”

Swerve did a spit-take; Whirl just rolled his optic.

“The only thing you’ll be doing in a berth is _recharging_.” Whirl tweaked one of his audials, and Rung laughed again. “You are _way_ too drunk to even think about anything else.”

“Who says I’d need to think?” Rung managed to get up on his knees this time, largely by steadying himself against Whirl’s frame. “I rather thought the point was _not_ thinking.”

“You can not think while you’re asleep, then,” Whirl said. His voice went staticky as Rung reached up and traced tender lines along some of his more sensitive transformation seams. “Rung, you’re not gonna get me to change my mind unless you activate your FIM chip.”

Rung would not have called his expression a pout, exactly, but the idea sounded highly unappealing. “I feel just fine.” His optics dimmed. “Although I can certainly think of ways to feel better.”

“Is this what you’ve been working with for the last month?” Swerve’s voice sounded far too close; Rung had forgotten them on the other side of the table. “How did you not fry your circuits?”

Whirl flinched hard, his claw digging nicely into Rung’s hip. “I don’t have impulse control issues. I just let everybody think I do so I can get away with scrap.”

Cyclonus snorted. “He certainly seems to have quite a charge for such a little one.”

The words were like ice water. Rung froze against Whirl, memories surging to the surface through what had been such a pleasant haze. Come here, little one. Show us your spark, little one. Still, little one, be still.

They’d told him he always seemed so eager.

His vents were nonfunctional; his sensory suite dialed itself up to maximum sensitivity; his armor rattled so hard it seemed to be jumping off of his protoform even as he tried to flatten it against his frame.

“Ah, scrap, Cyc, why the frag did you--” Whirl’s voice came through when the rest blurred, though the words made no sense. “Frag, frag, frag--gotta bail.”

Rung’s grip on Whirl went slack as he rose. His hands were trembling--his entire frame was shaking. He spark felt impossibly still in his chest.

Still, little one, be still.

He couldn’t be still. Every micrometer of mesh _crawled_ , agonized and disgusted and ashamed. Even Whirl’s voice had gone vague in his ringing audials--a sense of urgency, of concern--a claw gently tugging at his arm--he couldn’t get his vents to start. He couldn’t move.

They’d told him to be still. He was trying. He was _trying_. He would be still for them, and they wouldn’t set him on fire from within. Wouldn’t short-circuit him. He would be good.

Still, still, so still.

“Rung, please, sweetspark, look at me.”

His Master’s voice. His optics snapped up to look at his Master immediately, blurred though they were with cleaning fluid. He would behave. He would behave, and they wouldn’t have to rip off his armor again.

“Scrap, scrap, scrap.” His Master was displeased; Rung’s tanks roiled with terror. “Shh, no, you’re good, sweetspark, you’re good. Breathe for me.”

Rung pressed into his claw and began venting again. A few of the warnings on his HUD flickered from red to yellow as dangerous levels of heat began to dissipate.

“Good, good,” his Master praised, and Rung’s plating slowly settled into a shiver. “Is this like a panic attack? Should I do the same things?”

Rung projected wordless confusion back. He couldn’t tell his Master what he _should_ do. He had no place dictating such things.

“Frag it to fraggin--no, no, sweetspark, not you,” Whirl’s voice dropped back to a soothing tone as his claw stroked Rung’s cheek. “Please tell me the truth. Did you re-imprint?”

Rung had to wade through his processor for the answer. No--no, he hadn’t? “Conditioning,” he realized, swamped with shame so suddenly he curled in on himself. “Not code. Conditioning.”

He vented hard, and the shaking came back. His Master--no, no, Whirl, his courtmate, not his Master--kept a comforting grip on his hip.

When he tried to speak again, his vocalizer just clicked. The words wouldn’t come. He twisted to look at the onlookers--Cyclonus and Tailgate and Swerve and the whole damn bar--and he fought down the sudden and visceral need to purge. He couldn’t parse their expressions, couldn’t reach and assess their fields.

His vocalizer clicked frantically, desperately, searching for words. Any words at all.

They kept watching him, and his spark shrank with shame in his chest. He needed to be _home_. He needed to be home immediately. He needed to--to not be here, to not be seen.

[[home]]

He marked the glyph with the highest priority markers he could, sending it out over short-range comms in waves.

[[home home home-home-homehomehomeHOME]]

“Shh, shh, Rung, I gotcha.” The moment Whirl’s arms wrapped around him, he all but welded himself to Whirl’s side. “That’s right. We can go home. It’s okay.”

[[home?]] Rung pinged the glyph again, desperate for confirmation.

“Right back to the habsuite. Walk or fly?”

[[home]] He couldn’t handle any other glyphs--couldn’t parse them, produce them. [[homehomehome]]

When Whirl drew back, Rung beeped--just beeped, a high and desperate whine in binary. _no don’t go don’t go don’t go_

“I’m not going anywhere without you, brightspark.” Whirl scooped him up, and he buried his face against Whirl’s side, soaking in the familiar warmth of his frame, the soothing flux of his EM field. Whirl would get him to safety. Whirl would get him home. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’ll get you home, okay?”

Rung relaxed minutely against Whirl’s side and offlined his optics. On some level he knew that just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean that they couldn’t see him, but Whirl had him. Whirl had him--the rest could wait.

***

The only thing keeping Whirl from a full-fledged panic attack of his own was that Rung _needed_ him to keep it together. He focused on getting Rung back to their habsuite without doing anything to make the panic attack worse. Rung had a tighter grip on him than a grounder pitched off a shuttle. Terror and distress scattered throughout his field, prickling against Whirl’s own concern.

[[Swerve, if anybody ever calls Rung ‘little one’ again, I’m going with a shoot on sight policy, got it?]] At least Rung wouldn’t be able to hear the private comm. [[Make sure everybody knows that I’m one thousand percent serious.]]

[[Is that what--what upset him?]]

[[ _They_ called him that.]] Whirl made the impersonal pronoun as derogatory as he could, adding insults and disgust in the lines.

[[Flashback. Scrap. Yeah, I’ll tell ‘em. Swerve out.]]

Rung pinged him with the glyph for home several dozen more times over short-range comms. Some had marks indicating a plea; others a demand. All of them were marked with the highest possible priority--the kind of urgency that usually meant somebody was about to kick it. That didn’t settle his battle protocols any; they tried to initialize themselves three times just during the sprint to their habsuite.

“Almost home,” Whirl said, doing his best to make his own EM field soothing. At least he’d had practice with that while Rung was actually in the grip of the coding.

He felt sick as he thought of those terrified optics looking up at him, bracing for--well, he’d seen those optics in the merge memories. He knew what Rung was expecting when he looked like that, and Whirl never wanted to see that expression again.

As soon as Whirl slammed the door shut and locked it behind them, Rung’s entire frame went slack. He had to scramble to catch his courtmate, hoisting him up again to carry him to the berth.

“You’re okay, Rung. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t believe I--” Rung twisted to hide his face when his helm came to rest on the recharge slab. The words broke off into binary almost too rapid for Whirl to parse: _theyknowwhatiamandtheysawwhatiamandtheyknowtheyknowtheyknow--_

He went quiet as Whirl wrapped a blanket around him, tucking him in tight. Firm, nonsexual touch. Cutting off access routes. Dampening audio and visual feeds.

Whirl hugged the Rung-roll carefully, not wanting to stab him with the pokier bits of his frame but still needing to make Rung feel safe and protected and loved.

Thinking about love reminded him that Rung was drunk off his helm, which couldn’t be helping him stay stable. Before he could suggest a quick FIM chip activation, though, Rung started bawling.

His entire face contorted as he sobbed. It wasn’t the blank, tear-filled expression that had haunted the merge and Rung’s earlier panic; some wall had come crashing down, leaving him looking raw and vulnerable in a way that was too intimate for Whirl to handle.

“You call me brightspark, but I’m filthy.” Rung gasped for air, the blanket stymying most of his fans, but his forehead felt unnaturally cool to the touch. “I’m _filthy_.”

“What’re you talking about?” Whirl strained his voice, trying to play it off with a laugh. “Didn’t I do okay with the wax?”

“I’m _filthy_ ,” Rung repeated. “There’s nothing left of my spark. I can’t even merge--how can I court you if I can’t bond with you in the end? I hurt you, and they hurt you because of me, and I can’t even _give_ you anything. All I have to give is myself, and it’s _filthy_. I--I’d _contaminate_ you.”

“Rung--” Whirl tried to find words--anything to say to make Rung’s field stop twisting with pain and self-loathing. “Brightspark, you don’t--”

“I counted,” Rung said. “One night. I remember now--I remember counting.”

Whirl hesitated. “Counting?”

“Ninety-one million three hundred twenty-two thousand four hundred and eight,” Rung said. “Ninety-one million three hundred twenty-two thousand four hundred and eight.”

“What--what does that number mean?” Whirl wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he _had_ to.

“The number of times they violated my spark,” Rung answered. “Over the course of twenty-three thousand years. More than ten times a day on average.” He shook against Whirl’s side. “They weren’t all merges, but--but over twenty-five milion forced merges, and--and they left _fragments_. They hurt you. I hurt you.”

The number was too vast to process--to fully conceptualize. “You didn’t,” Whirl said, squeezing him tight. Grounding him, protecting him--he hoped. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Rung twisted in the tangle of blankets, worming his way over to his his face against Whirl’s neck. His voice sounded weaker. “I’m afraid to merge with you because I’m _dirty_. Everyone in the bar--they saw it. They know.”

He shifted, and Whirl could tell even through the blanket that he’d brought a servo up to guard his interface panel. Whirl remembered the glyph that had been glowing there--a search had dug up a horrible definition: a waste receptacle for unwanted charge. Not just an interface aide; charge mirrors could be described with positive glyphs. This one had been sharp with disgust and every marker implied that Rung was unclean and unworthy of touch.

Whirl ran a claw along Rung’s spinal strut, pitching his engine to rumble at the most comforting frequency it could. “Brightspark--” It seemed important to call him that, suddenly. “Brightspark, no one on this ship thinks you’re dirty.”

“You’ve seen,” Rung whimpered. “You’ve _seen_ , love.”

“I saw you surviving torture that would’ve made me offline myself,” Whirl said. “You’re so fraggin’--you’re _brave_ , and you’re _strong_ , and you’re _so important_ , Rung. They lied to you. They lied to you again and again and _again_.”

“I’m worth nothing.”

“You’re worth _everything_ , dammit.” Whirl just barely kept his voice in check; Rung needed the quiet, the darkness--right, of course, he’d forgotten the lights.

Rung relaxed by increments after Whirl sent the remote command to shut off the lights. Neither of them spoke into the silence; Whirl focused entirely on making his EM field as soothing as possible, massaging tense cables and sore transformation seams with careful claws. The blanket was a little cumbersome, but it also kept Rung secure and made it impossible to hurt him by mistake.

Just trying to imagine twenty-five million forced merges--when Whirl had only merged _once_ , with somebody he already trusted and wanted--made him sick. He’d known that Rung offering his spark had to be routine, given how automatically the coding snapped his chest panels open. He’d known from the merges that Rung’s abusers had pawed at it every chance they got.

Ninety million times. That went beyond obscene--beyond anything Whirl could actually imagine. A spark was _sacred_. And they’d made Rung believe his own spark was dirty because of _them_.

“You’re worth everything,” he said again, his voice low. “You got that, Rung? _Everything_.”

Rung’s vents were slow and even against his neck, his frame relaxed.

“I’ll prove it,” Whirl murmured, stroking Rung’s back. “If you activate your FIM chip and tell me you want to merge, my spark’s yours.” The FIM chip was important, though. If Rung didn’t have his processor in order, if he just made a decision from a feeling-bad place instead of a feeling-good place--that didn’t count as a yes. Not really. “Because your spark’s perfect just like it is, Rung, and it’s beautiful, and they _lied_.” He hesitated. “But I’m cool with snuggling and--”

Rung snuffled against his neck, and Whirl had to swallow a laugh. He relaxed against his courtmate, pressing affection through his EM field in the hopes it’d give Rung better dreams.

“Good call, sweetspark.” Whirl offlined his optic and let all his focus center around the mech in his arms. “It’s been a long day.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung and Whirl's second time is substantially nicer than their first.

Rung woke slowly, processes coming back online one by one. He was first aware of the warm and loving presence wrapped around him, then the gentle rumbling of Whirl’s engines, then the soft blanket and berth. When he finally onlined his optics, he found himself reluctant to get up; Whirl had curled around Rung so protectively that he felt as if nowhere in the galaxy could be safer than this one spot, this one perfect moment.

He stretched a little, nuzzling up against Whirl’s neck. A sleepy chirr greeted him, and the claws against his side made a weak attempt at massaging him, clearly groggy and still painstakingly gentle.

“Sleep okay?” Whirl’s voice slurred. “Any nightmares?”

Rung shook his helm, still pressed up against Whirl’s neck. He couldn’t resist kissing the cables before him. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details from last night, but I take it the date didn’t go well?”

Whirl didn’t answer for a long moment, but his claws kneaded soothing circles into Rung’s back. “Not so well, no,” Whirl admitted. “You know--you know that you’ve got my spark, right?”

Rung frowned. “What?”

“Like--you don’t have to do anything. It’s already yours.” Whirl’s field flashed with embarrassment and no small amount of--of  _love_.

“That’s--” Rung tried to find words, but his processor was blank. Bits and pieces of the previous night began to come into focus, but he could only see snippets--little details. “I don’t understand.”

“What I’m saying is that I’d merge with you whenever you want, okay?” Whirl’s sincerity poured into Rung. “Anytime, anywhere.”

“You don’t--” Rung had to reset his vocalizer twice to get the words out. “You don’t owe me that, treasure.”

“It’s not about owing.” Whirl nuzzled his helm, field rich with affection. “It’s about wanting.”

“But my spark is…” Rung trailed off. He remembered sobbing--remembered distress at the state of his spark. He probably wasn’t even  _capable_  of bonding if he’d never bonded with any of his Masters. How could he justify courting Whirl? “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I’m scared of hurting you.” Whirl’s claw tensed against his back. “I just want you to be safe. I’ll do  _anything_  to keep you safe, you know that?”

Rung shuddered and pulled back to give Whirl a stern look. “Like when you tried to offline yourself?”

Whirl shrugged. “Got rid of the coding.”

“Last night, when you thought that it had come back?” Rung let the sentence hang between them, unfinished.

Whirl’s optic seemed to soften. “I’m not gonna leave you alone with the turbofoxes, Rung. I’m here.” His optic curved into a smile. “And my spark’s all yours whether or not you want to take it.”

“I wouldn’t  _take_  your spark,” Rung said. “No one can  _take_  a spark. Your spark is whole and inviolate.”

“And so is yours,” Whirl said, his voice gentle. “You aren’t what they did to you.”

“You don’t want to merge with me.” Rung pulled himself closer so he wouldn’t have to look at Whirl as he said it. He didn’t want the vicious streak of hope that burned through his core. “You were almost inconsolable last time.”

“And you were way worse off.” Whirl huffed, tweaking the sensitive spot on his hips. “I’m not gonna merge with you unless you  _want_  to merge. I’m just tellin’ you that you don’t have to be afraid to want it. I’ve got you.”

In his chest, Rung’s spark strained toward Whirl. Every atom of his being wanted to be one spark in two frames again--wanted to be more than whole. Wanted to see Whirl’s workshop and Whirl’s pranks and feel that overwhelmingly comforting presence against his very being.

“I’m frightened,” Rung said. “I--I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Big tough guy like me?” Whirl puffed up his armor and struck a ridiculously cocky pose for someone curled around a mech swaddled in blankets. “Not a chance, brightspark.”

Rung hoped his EM field would share his skepticism; he was too warm and comfortable to pull back and arch an optic ridge at him.

“If I gotta call you brightspark at top volume in front of everybody on the ship for the rest of forever, Rung, I will.” Mischief danced in Whirl’s field. “Don’t test me on that. I will shout it at every opportunity until you believe me.”

“Two can play at that game,” Rung said, nipping at Whirl’s throat. He found the abrupt rattle of fans cut off by a manual override strangely satisfying. “Oh, have you seen my love anywhere? Where could my treasure be?”

“You got one thing right,” Whirl muttered. “The  _my_  part.”

That threw Rung off, and he sputtered a bit of static as he tried to regain his composure.

“Uh huh, that’s right--I’m all yours, brightspark.” He could feel Whirl’s invisible but plainly smug grin. “Go on and ask me to merge at Swerve’s. I don’t fraggin’ care--the rest of the ship can go frag themselves. You wanna merge on Roddy’s fancy captain seat? I’ll grab him by the finials and toss him out of the way. You want me to to go to movie night and merge on the couch? Pit, yeah, whatever. This spark’s  _yours_ , Rung. I--” The armor beneath Rung’s servos flushed. “I love you, okay?”

***

When Rung started trembling, Whirl thought he’d fragged it all up. Maybe talking about merging in front of people had brought him back to when the Functionists made him do that every damn day. Maybe he felt like he  _had_  to merge with Whirl.

“But I’ll totally understand if you don’t wanna merge yet,” Whirl said, stroking Rung’s back. “Really. I swear that I’m happy with hardline or tactile or snuggling--I just like being around you, y’know?”

Rung pulled back, and fear raced through him for a moment before he realized that it was just to shimmy out of the pile of blankets. Bright, sincere optics met his worried look, and two gentle servos came up to cup the sides of his helm. He could feel how  _touched_  Rung was on a level that struck him right in the spark.

“Are you sure that you want to try this, Whirl?” Rung asked--almost awed, like he couldn’t believe it. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

“Like I said--this is about wanting, not owing. Promise.” He grinned down at his courtmate. “As long as the same goes for you, yeah--yeah, I wanna try.”

Rung’s chest panels parted--slowly this time, deliberately. A choice. “I want this,” he agreed. “I--I want to try.”

Whirl sent the command to open up his own spark chamber. It was somehow more intimate than their first time--the brilliant blue of Rung’s spark straining towards Whirl, the flashy gold of Whirl’s spark leaping the distance so that it burned closer to Rung’s frame than his own. Whirl could swear that the he could feel lines of charge leaping between them even before they made contact--a tendril of faint light connecting them, grounding them--

Their sparks made contact, and the world fell away.

“I’ve got you,” Whirl said immediately--not aloud, but somehow he could feel Rung’s answer.

“You have me.”

The words lit a glow within Whirl, flooding him with--with something  _calm_  and  _stable_  and  _caring_  and a hundred other things. He tried to think of a moment, any moment, where he’d felt so at peace, and his shop formed itself around them.

He could see in three dimensions again--could see the dust swirling in the air, catching the morning light. He could have laughed as his younger self surveyed the room.

“Pit, was the place really this much of a mess when I got it?”

A hollowed out hole-in-the-wall shop infested with rust. His younger self looked around the room with a spark full of giddy excitement. There were no shelves, no workbenches, not even a door to shut behind him. It had taken more than a vorn to get his petition through to the Council and get approval.

“This is the same shop?” Rung asked, and his incredulity made Whirl laugh again.

“That pretty crystal clock you liked is gonna end up going right there,” Whirl said, freezing the moment as his younger self glanced at the rust spot on the wall. “I never did get all the rust out, but hey--crystal doesn’t rust. Clients were none the wiser.”

Rung’s amusement filtered through him like sunlight through the murky air. “Very clever.”

He let the memory play, pointing out where he would eventually put displays--where he would eventually set up a workstation in the back--the closet he’d turned into a berthroom because he couldn’t afford to rent an apartment  _and_  shop space.

Meanwhile, the Whirl of the past set about scrubbing down the shop, clearing the debris and polishing the windows to let in better light.

It wasn’t until he saw his face shining in the reflection of one freshly cleaned window that the deep-seated longing surfaced. “I would’ve kissed you silly,” Whirl said, looking at his lips. “Would’ve smooched you from helm to pede.”

“I think you’re beautiful as you are,” Rung said, and Whirl could feel that he meant it. “This version of you doesn’t even have pedipalps.”

The mention of his pedipalps shifted the memory--before it could latch onto any of the bad stuff he’d gone through, he grabbed for the first moment he’d  _really_  liked having them. He dragged the memory to the forefront, treating Whirl to the sight of Rung grinning up at him.

“Is that--is that how I seem to you?”

“What, fraggin’ perfect?” Whirl let the joy of that smile wash over him again, eagerly anticipating the soft brush of lips that would come any second--he shuddered with pleasure at the sensation of Rung mouthing gently at his pedipalps.

Rung’s optics had offlined, but Whirl stared, just as transfixed as he had been the first time. His field flared with heat--with desire--as he kissed this part of Whirl that nobody had ever touched. Not sweetly. Not tenderly.

Any thought of reciprocating melted along with his processor. So long as Rung kept stroking _right there_  and flicking his tongue against the very tip of the pedipalp currently—currently _in his mouth—_ he would do anything. _Anything_.

“You really had no idea that you were talking, did you?”

Whirl tried to take a step back from the memory, to focus on the begging pouring from his own vocalizer. He hadn’t paid attention at the time, though--couldn’t pull the words from the static roaring in his audials. “Nope.”

The memory twisted, warping at the edges--and then Whirl could feel warm metal on his lips, against his tongue. Could hear his fans roaring outside of his own frame.

Rung’s optics onlined to look up at Whirl, and the enormity of Rung’s affection--his attraction--hit Whirl like a punch to the gut. Through Rung’s optics, he could see actual appeal in his not-face. He felt Rung’s overwhelming desire to keep kissing those pedipalps, to keep encouraging those pleas pouring from Whirl’s vocalizer.

“So I promised to take you flying on the next planet?” Whirl asked. Primus, he hadn’t thought his berthtalk was so...weak.

“And to give me twenty massages every orn,” Rung said. “Among other things.”

“You better make a list,” Whirl said. “I gotta get to work.”

Rung laughed so hard that he could hear the sound ringing in the present. Adoration rolled over Whirl, spark to spark. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh, you wanna see something unbelievable?” Whirl felt back for another memory, hoping that directing the way they flowed would keep bad ones from choosing themselves. “I got just the thing.”

***

Whirl took him through a flurry of memories. The time that Top Spin and Twintwist had worked with Verity--a human--to magnetize Ultra Magnus _just_  enough to stick ‘refrigerator magnets’ to him. The time Kup had gotten overcharged enough to tell lewd stories for twelve solid joors without repeating a single kink. The time Perceptor had gone to clean out his rifle and found it stuffed full of rubber ducks. Memories of the Wreckers just--relaxing. Spending time together.

Rung recognized the ache for that sense of home and family and bonding. Everyone thought that Whirl missed the Wreckers for the fighting, but of course he’d never shared these precious moments with anyone. Not before Rung.

Any time it looked like another memory might jump to the forefront and take them down the path they’d traveled before, Whirl would unearth another cherished memory and bare his spark to Rung yet again.

Throughout each memory, Whirl added ridiculous commentary, adding a slow but steady surge of affection within Rung’s spark. Charge swelled as he felt Whirl’s spark surrounding his, guarding him from even himself. He felt safe and warm and loved and giddy all at once.

For the first time in his functioning, he laughed as he overloaded.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl demonstrates his self-sufficiency. Rung revisits a previous conversation.

Whirl held Rung as his frame shuddered in overload, keeping his spark near Rung’s even as the merge eased them apart. He’d expected to feel exhausted after digging for thirty or forty good memories to keep the merge pleasant, but he just felt--refreshed.

Well, and kinda keyed up, but it was totally worth it. Rung’s field shone from the post-overload haze, and he’d covered his face with his servos to smother his giggles. It wasn’t working; Whirl could feel the giddy delight pouring off of him.

Better than an overload any damn day.

“Treasure, dearspark,” Rung said--through the giggles, still, which shook even his spark. He raised his hands to the sides of Whirl’s helm and brought their forehelms together so that his optics were the only thing in Whirl’s field of vision. “You’re incredible.”

He wanted to kiss those dorky glasses. Wanted to kiss every micrometer of that grinning face. His spark sang, free to pull back into his own chest and unwilling to leave Rung’s.

“You had a good time, I take it?” Whirl asked, optic curving into a grin. He ran his claws along Rung’s spinal strut and ignoring the charge pooling in his own frame. “Primus, you’re gorgeous. You know that?”

Rung pressed soft, tender kisses to Whirl’s pedipalps. His vision fritzed as he tried to hold himself together. He could  _tell_  these were meant to be wind-down post-’facing kisses. Exhaustion and satiation filled Rung’s field; he wasn’t gonna be up for a second round.

“ _You’re_  gorgeous,” Rung murmured, the words vibrating against the sensitive tip of one pedipalp, and the arousal that spiked in Whirl’s field was beyond his ability to control. He couldn’t even mute the staticky groan that bled out of his vocalizer. A brief rush of surprise hit him, pulsing out from the spark so close to his own. “Whirl?”

“That was a lot of fun.” Whirl pressed his sincerity across the narrow gap between their sparks to distract Rung from his charge. “I had a great time.”

“I should take care of your charge,” Rung said, and he felt anxiety push back some of the afterglow. “Here, just give me a moment, and--”

“Not your job.” Whirl flicked his antennae. “What do you want to do today?”

The baffled look on Rung’s face made his spark ache. “I’m the one who got you charged up--”

“Not your job!” Whirl said again, using his cheeriest singsong voice to emphasize his point. “I was thinking we could hit the observation deck today. You could bring one of your ships, I could bring your chronometer--nice and quiet like.”

“That--that does sound lovely,” Rung said, and disbelief and concern and a hundred other feelings filtered through to Whirl, “but first I really ought to--”

Whirl pulled back far enough that triggering the medical override for charge dispersal wouldn’t sting Rung by proximity. The flash of pain only lasted a split second, but Rung gaped at him.

He grinned back. “Would you look at that! I took care of my charge all by myself. It’s almost like it’s not your responsibility. Go figure, right?”

Rung looked at him with a blank expression, his field brimming over with exasperated fondness. “You’re absurd.”

“ _You’re_  the one who decided to court me.” Whirl gave a dramatic shrug and swung his legs over the side of the berth to sit up. “That’s at least thirty times more absurd. Easy.”

Rung didn’t rise; he curled around Whirl’s waist instead. “Thank you.”

Whirl reached down to pet Rung’s helm. “Any time.”

***

Tucked between Whirl’s arm and chassis, Rung felt safe and secure. He hadn’t had an overload untarnished by his experiences under the Functionists since he’d been freed. For the first time in millions of years, he could actually settle into a post-overload haze not tinged with shame and self-loathing.

He would’ve found it no trouble at all to give back to Whirl, of course. He’d expected to. The fact that Whirl had insisted on flushing the charge instead of overloading--to prove a point, to prove that he really wouldn’t take anything Rung didn’t eagerly want to give--had made him more resolute than ever before.

After a quick scan of the observation deck to make sure they were alone, Rung cleared his throat. “I would like you to dominate me.”

Whirl stiffened, twisting to look down at him. “What, like, right now?”

“I thought we could negotiate somewhere we were less likely to begin, hm, experimenting.” Somewhere that would give Whirl a little room to think. “If that’s all right?”

“Sure, we can talk about it.” Whirl relaxed again. “Does that mean you got a better idea of what you want?”

He’d been running parallel processes to keep working on the subject ever since he’d first brought it up. “I hope so.”

“Lay it on me, sweetspark.”

When Rung opened his mouth to speak, a tiny beep escaped instead, high and nervous and excited. Rung reset his vocalizer and tried again. “I like the idea of movement restriction,” he said. “The Functionists never needed to physically restrain me, and I find the pressure relaxing. Being able to push against my bonds also seems appealing.”

“Okay, that kinda thing doesn’t need any powerplay attached.” Whirl clicked his claws in consideration. “What is it that appeals to you about it? Being held down? Being immobile? Struggling?”

Rung’s cooling fans kicked on before he could send a manual override. “I never had the luxury of struggling before. I--I do rather like that aspect.” He hesitated. “The most alluring feature is probably the forced vulnerability. I--I haven’t allowed myself to be vulnerable in quite some time, but I trust you. I feel as though I could leave myself at your mercy and be perfectly safe.”

Whirl vented hard. “So you  _do_ want some powerplay in there, it sounds like. That’s--that’s a big responsibility to give somebody like me, Rung. You sure about this?”

Rung reached out to hug Whirl’s claw to his chest, letting it rest against the window to his spark. “About trusting you? I have no doubt at all.”

Whirl shook his helm. “Okay, then we gotta do this right. How do you want to be restrained? Stasis cuffs? Ropes?” Rung ran a deliberate thumb along Whirl’s claw, and he stilled. “You can’t be serious, sweetspark.”

“I like your claws,” Rung said, only a little defensive. “They’re beautiful. They make me feel safe.”

Whirl groaned, leaning his helm back to face the ceiling. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” He covered his optic with his free claw. “My claws are deadly weapons.”

“So I guess I should also refrain from mentioning my desire to kiss your gun barrels?” Rung arched an eyebrow. “That’s a shame. They seem as if they would fit nicely in my mouth.”

Whirl’s cooling fans clicked on, and he looked down at Rung as if he’d never seen him before. “ _What?_ ”

Rung gave his most guileless smile. “Wouldn’t pinning me with your claws give you perfect access?”

Whirl offlined his optic as his fans kicked into high gear, sending a pleasant wash of heated air over Rung. “Okay, yeah, you’ve been thinking about this.”

“I’m also interested in being forced to delay my own overload,” he added. “At least until you’ve gotten three or four out of me.”

“Rung.”

“And I’m particularly fond of the idea of worshiping you from helm to pede,” Rung said, nuzzling up against Whirl’s cockpit. “Telling you exactly what I love about every micrometer of your frame. Telling you exactly what you do to me. Making my appreciation known, one might say.”

Seeing a few memories from Whirl’s perspective had made it clear that the overload he’d experienced in the medbay had been prompted less by tactile stimulation than the praise that accompanied it. A flattered thrill raced through Whirl’s field.

“I still think I oughta sub first.” Whirl’s voice had gone thick with static. “I liked feeding you. I liked it a  _lot_.”

He clearly meant it--arousal spread through his field. “Oh?” Rung prompted.

“Only this time--if we do that again--I’d, uh. I’d kinda like it if you left the bite mark.”

Rung decided to tease him by rising up on his knees to kiss his throat. “You want me to mark you?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Whirl’s voice broke off into needy static as Rung pressed his denta against the mesh above his main fuel line. Not biting--not yet, anyway. “I want everybody to know I’m yours. That I’m  _good enough_  to be yours.”

His voice was so fervent that it nearly took Rung aback. He pressed a loving kiss to the spot he’d once drunk from. “Treasure, you’re far too good for me.”

“So I can sub first?”

Rung grinned against his neck. “ _I_  asked first.”

Whirl groaned as Rung settled back down against his side. Both of their fans roared, and Rung had to fight back a laugh at the sight the two of them would make for any passersby. Fans blasting when they were only cuddling.

“Okay, so we gotta talk boundaries and stuff,” Whirl said. “You--you take a little longer to really think about those, and I’ll try it.”

“I trust you.”

“Yeah, so trust me to know what the frag I’m talking about here.” Whirl shook his helm. “And Ratchet just pinged me--you gotta go in for a checkup. Feelin’ up for it?”

“Yes, of course.” Rung hesitated. He’d spent so many centuries being examined by medics that even the smell of antiseptic set him on edge. Even so, Ratchet had always managed to be both professional and acerbic enough that it kept such memories at bay. “As long as you’re with me.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung and Whirl go for a checkup. Ratchet gives them unexpected news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick fyi before we get into the fluff: enthusiasticinformedfragging wanted to note that they haven't read "Bullets" and aren't comfortable incorporating Jetstream into Whirl's characterisation.

Ratchet didn’t bother fighting the urge to roll his optics when the pair of them walked in. Practically joined at the hip and humming with charge--no wonder Red Alert had panicked and asked him to ping Whirl with a reminder about the appointment.

“I’d ask you to take a seat over in the waiting area, but I’m guessing I’m stuck with both of you for this checkup?”

“I consent to Whirl having access to any medical information that arises over the course of this appointment,” Rung said--and it sounded like he’d rehearsed it.

“Yeah, sure, fine. Up you get.”

Ratchet managed not to shake his helm as Whirl delicately offered a claw to Rung to help him hop up onto the medbay berth. They were _disgusting_. No wonder the whole ship had been so suspicious; if he’d never pegged Whirl for a secret sap, nobody else had, either. And then, of course, he’d watched five joors of footage of Whirl playing masseuse while constantly showering Rung with praise--and that was _before_ they were a couple.

Still, being suspicious wasn’t anywhere _close_ to justifying the invasion of privacy that had been Swerve’s cute little blacklight party. Fraggin’ afts--he should leave a couple marks on each of ‘em. ‘If you can see this, I’m being an aft again. Comm Ratchet immediately.’

Fraggers.

“Okay, I’m gonna run a few scans, but I’ve got some questions for you while they’re going.” When Rung nodded, Ratchet queued up every type of scan he could think of. “It sounds like you experience chronic pain?”

“It’s only bad enough to hinder me when it flares up,” Rung answered. “I’m usually perfectly capable of managing without assistance. It’s only when I overtax myself that it becomes untenable to...”

Ratchet crossed his arms and gave Rung his patented _you’re not fooling me, bub_ look. The Autobot high command had tried to weaponize it once.

Rung’s clasped his hands in his lap and looked away. “Yes, I experience chronic pain.”

“How often would you say you experience it?”

Rung hemmed and hawed, but eventually Ratchet worked out that Rung did, in fact, constantly experience low-grade pain that he’d learned to dismiss. The pain was global--helm to pede, right and left side.

Ratchet _wanted_ to ask why he’d never been in to have it examined before, but four million years could make anything seem normal.

“Are transformations painful?” Ratchet asked. “Not just into alt-mode; any transformations you perform.”

“Well.” Rung reset his vocalizer. “It--” He reset his vocalizer again, looking down at his servos. “It is somewhat uncomfortable when I fold back the panels of my spark chamber.”

Ratchet froze. “Psychosomatic?” he asked, his voice hesitant and doubtful.

Rung shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He vented, turning away from Whirl and Ratchet alike. “You--you may need UV light for this.”

Ratchet’s fuel curdled in his tanks. “Are you ready for that kind of exam?”

“If Whirl holds my hand, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Rung forced a smile. “Just--don’t read it aloud, please?”

If Ratchet had heard anything more ominous about an injury since the war ended, he couldn’t think of it. Still, he flicked on a handheld blacklight and waited as Rung parted his chest plates, pointedly ignoring the crude glyphs inscribed there.

“Is that the transformation sequence that hurts?”

“No. The--the iris,” Rung clarified, making a sharp, abortive gesture toward the rings that spiraled shut to guard his spark. “I suspect you’ll see it.”

Ratchet’s hands only remained steady from long experience. It was a sick mockery of engagement painting; insults and promises to hurt lined it all the way to its center. One glyph-- _nothing at all_ \--had actually left a dent in the sensitive metal visible even to the unassisted optic if one bothered to look for it.

Ratchet wished he had. Wished that _any_ of Rung’s prior physicians had.

Whirl’s optic narrowed, taking in the words, and Ratchet felt a pulse of rage roll off of him.

“I think I can pop that dent, but it’s gonna be tender for a few orns,” Ratchet said, flicking off the lamp as he pulled back to look up at Rung. “It shouldn’t pinch once it’s healed, though.”

“And--the scar?”

Ratchet hated to say anything that would dim that nervous hope, but he had an honesty first policy. “I can’t do anything about that.” He looked away at the monitors. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

Ratchet onlined his vocalizer to say something, but the results of one of the scans caught his attention. He squinted at the data, then glanced back and forth between Rung and Whirl. He looked back at the screen and snorted. “Well, that was probably the shortest courtship I’ve ever seen, but congratulations.”

When he turned around, he expected flustered blushing as the two fawned over each other. Instead, he was greeted by three unnaturally wide optics.

Rung’s voxcoder clicked eight times before he managed to produce a single word. “What?”

“Congratulations,” Ratchet repeated, gesturing at the screen. “You know? On bonding?”

Rung’s jaw dropped, and both of them fastened their attention on the screen. One of Ratchet’s servos seemed to be possessed; it rose to cover his face before he could stop it.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, voice dry. “You just _accidentally_ bonded. And didn’t realize it.”

“We--” Rung’s voxcoder clicked again, and Ratchet reflexively scanned it--no damage. “We haven’t.”

“Uh huh.” Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose and reached for patience. “If you two are trying to tell me that you haven’t merged--”

“No, we merged,” Rung said. “Twice.”

It was Ratchet’s turn to reset his vocalizer. “Okay, let’s start with the basics. How does a bond form?”

The blank look he got in return--from both of them--made him balk.

“Uh, I figured you had to,” Whirl gestured vaguely with one claw, “like, _try_ to bond.”

Ratchet shook his head, and his monitors indicated that Rung’s spark had started to flicker with panic. Nothing dangerous, thankfully, but certainly enough to alert him to the possibility of an oncoming panic attack.

“But I--” Rung seemed to be forcing himself to meet Ratchet’s gaze. “Is--is this bond with--” His voice fritzed until he reset it. When he spoke again, his voice had gone cold and detached as a drone’s. “Prior to my experiences with Whirl, I experienced twenty-five million four hundred forty-seven thousand eight hundred thirty-six forced merges by my best estimate.”

The UV light in Ratchet’s servo snapped in half. “ _Twenty-five million?_ ” He needed more scanners. “I need to check your spark for damage. Don’t open up yet; I still need to pop that dent for you.”

When he turned back, tool in hand, Rung was shaking. Whirl’s plating flared at him in a defensive dominance display at his approach, and he rolled his optics. He had to take a moment to play back Rung’s broken sentences before he picked out the problem.

“You didn’t have a bond when you came in here for repairs earlier,” Ratchet said, leaning in to find the tiny dent. “And anyway, a bond has to be mutual.”

“But you said--” Rung broke off with a staticky yelp of pain as Ratchet popped the dent, and Whirl bristled. “Sweetspark, I’m fine, I just--I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“It hurts worse with a warning,” Ratchet said. “Anyway, try spiraling that open and see if it still pinches.”

Rung in-vented deeply and tensed as if bracing himself, then spun back the iris to expose his spark. He reset his optics and looked down in surprise. “That’s the first time in four million years it hasn’t stung.”

Ratchet pulled out a scanner to get a detailed reading on Rung’s spark. “Sore?”

“Not enough to bother me,” Rung answered. “What are you doing now?”

“Examining your spark for damage.” He held the scanner steady despite the information flashing on the display. “Whirl, can you open up your spark chamber, too?”

“I--” Rung’s spark visibly shuddered inward. “Could I have injured him in the merge?”

“No,” Ratchet said. “Not a chance. It’s _forced_ merges or forcibly _broken_ merges that do damage. Healthy ones heal the spark.”

“Heal?” Whirl repeated, and Ratchet could feel that bright yellow optic burning a hole through his helm. “You can heal sparks?”

“Everything can be healed,” Ratchet said. “But _I_ can’t heal Rung’s spark.” He pulled back to transfer the data from the scanner onto the holoscreen, but Whirl caught him by the arm.

“How?” he asked, voice fierce.

“A healthy merge requires all involved parties to _want_ the merge,” Ratchet said. “If somebody is merging out of obligation, fear, or physical duress, that’s not consent. Not to the spark.”

“Okay, since when is a yes actually a _yes_ if you don’t feel like you can say no?” Whirl rolled his optic. “Obviously that doesn’t count! I know what the bad stuff is--how do you make it _better_?”

Ratchet flicked his claw to get him to release his arm, then turned back to the holoscreen. “Unhealthy merges make bad neural connections--that’s the brain module and spark relationship, that’s how memories get stored and linked. They also damage extant connections.” He pulled the data up and offered it to them. “Healthy merges can repair those connections and forge new ones. In time, they can even reduce the risk of flashbacks and pain from reliving the old memories.”

“So you’re saying…?”

Ratchet gestured at the screen. “If your first or second merge produced a bond my weaker scanners could pick up, just keep doing what you’re doing.” Twenty-five million fragging assaults, and Rung had never said a damn thing. He pointed at the scars littering the data readout. “Look--a few areas are smoother than the others. If you’d been assaulted once or twice, I’d probably say those areas weren’t hit. With the extent of your trauma, however--”

“ _I’m_ healing him?” Whirl sounded almost awed as his claw came up to the hologram. “Seriously?”

Ratchet hummed. “Open up your spark chamber, Whirl.”

Whirl obeyed for once, his cockpit folding back out of the way.

Ratchet pointed the scanner at Whirl and continued. “Take a look at yourselves,” he said. When they looked at each other, their sparks leapt noticeably toward one another--as if drawn by magnets. A faint line flickered in the air between them. “See that?”

Based on the way they were staring at the connection as if they’d never even conceived of such a thing, Ratchet felt like they probably needed a little more explanation. Before he could provide it, though, Whirl reached out to touch the crackle of energy connecting their sparks.

“I didn’t know you could _see_ ‘em,” he whispered. “I--I saw something like this just before we merged. That second time, I mean.”

“You bonded during your _first_ merge?” Ratchet asked, more than a little incredulous. He pinched the bridge of his nose again and vented deeply to steady himself. “Okay. Okay, here’s a question. At any point during your first merge, were you able to make out clearly defined thoughts that weren’t yours?”

“The second memory--the first memory I shared--” Rung’s voice came out in grating, halting bursts. “It was one the Functionists had--damaged. Intentionally.”

Whirl’s optic narrowed. “They were _wrong_ , Rung.” His voice had gone low and dangerous. “And you don’t have any kind of bond with ‘em. Ratch _said_ so.”

“You could hear--them?” Ratchet hesitated, flicking through the scans for more data. “That’s more likely the result of being forced to act during a merge, but--”

“But that’s not possible, right?” Whirl asked. “You can’t do anything during a merge.”

Rung went very still. “It’s possible.”

Ratchet’s spark recoiled in horror. “Did--”

If Rung heard him, he made no sign. “They would give me orders while I was merged with others. ‘Listen to me.’ ‘Stay online.’ ‘Repeat this back to me.’” His servo rattled against Whirl’s claw. “When they were feeling generous, at least. When they felt that I needed punishment, they would order me to vivisect myself.”

“ _What_.” Whirl didn’t inflect it as a question; it sounded like a threat.

“Typically they would be satisfied with me stripping away some of my armor,” he said, his optics unfocused and far away, “but there were times when they ordered me to remove my own organs. Some of them wanted to experience the pain without the risk of actual damage--a merge was the most efficient means to that end.”

Ratchet didn’t even react to the sound of Whirl’s battle protocols onlining and offlining in rapid succession.

“Efficient,” Ratchet repeated. He’d seen and heard a lot of things in his time as CMO, but this--this made him feel the need to purge. “If you could hear them, it was because of partially broken spark merges and other trauma, not because of a bond.”

“And Whirl defended me.” Rung’s voice took on a hint of warmth, the ghastly expression on his face softening. “I could feel him--shouting?” He hesitated. “He was all around me, protecting me, and then I _heard_ him. ‘You just say that to my face!’” Rung actually chuckled. “‘I’ll fight you! I’ll rip your helm off!’ It was--it was so endearing.”

“That’s the moment you bonded, then,” Ratchet said, and both of their helms snapped up to focus on him. “A bond forms when you welcome someone into your spark. When Whirl reached out and you accepted, you bonded.”

They looked away from him to stare at each other. He’d never seen Whirl look so utterly... _sappy_.

He shook his helm and turned away to gather some datapads to send home with Rung. Physical therapy would help with the physical pain; clearly Whirl had the spark damage well in claw.

***

Swerve hadn’t expected to see Rung or Whirl for weeks after the blacklight fiasco, but there they were. He’d booted Trailcutter from the secluded back corner to give them a little privacy, but he couldn’t resist keeping an audial tuned to them.

At first they’d spoken in low voices about bonding and healing--too quiet for Swerve to pick out the details, but they’d sounded way more earnest than anybody should at a bar. Swerve had offered a free round for the table to cheer them up, and both of them had latched onto the high-grade like it was a life raft.

Twenty rounds of free drinks later, Swerve started to think that maybe he’d made a mistake.

“Just--look at him!” Whirl lifted a giggling Rung over his head and swayed. His voice had the kind of awe and reverence in it that Drift might use if he met the Guiding Hand in person. “He’s the most beautifulest fraggin’ bot in the--the galaxy!”

“You should probably--” Tailgate began, hovering nervously around Whirl’s pedes as if he actually had any hope of catching Rung if he fell. “You really should--”

Whirl brought Rung in for a crushing hug, and Rung laughed so hard that Swerve could see cleaning solvent streaking his cheeks. Where had his glasses gone?

“Look at my brightspark,” Whirl said, nuzzling his helm. “Swing--Swuzz--Swerve, I need another brightspark for my brightspark.”

Swerve exchanged a look with Skids. “Uh.”

“Sweetspark, you’re--you’re fraggin’. Fraggin’ gorgeous. Like. Like stars and scrap.” Whirl nuzzled the top of Rung’s helm and gave the most besotted sigh Swerve had ever heard. “An’ you’re. You’re way too nice. It’s like--wow! What a nice. What a good.”

He spun Rung in a wobbly circle, still hugging him tight.

“The nicest and goodest.” Swerve didn’t need to tune in to hear him; his lovestruck voice was louder than the music. “The--the _best_. My beautiful brightspark.”

Rung sounded like he was trying to say something, but he was laughing too hard to get the words out. Whirl tossed him in the air again and caught him neatly despite the drunken stumbling. Tailgate looked about ready to pass out, but Rung just shrieked with the giddiest, happiest laughter Swerve could even imagine. In fact, he didn’t think he _could_ have imagined Rung laughing like that.

Whirl settled back into the booth and gathered Rung up on his lap. “I love yooooouuuuu,” he sang, drawing out the words to warble with the music. “I love you like. Lots and lots. You are the lovedest.”

“Oh my goodness!” Rung covered his grin and buried his face against Whirl’s neck.

“Yes, exactly.” Whirl nodded solemnly. “You are my goodness.”

Rung bapped him on the head. “Whirl!”

Whirl pressed into the servo, optic curved into a grin so euphoric Swerve felt embarrassed for him. “Yes, I am here. I am Whirl. I am in love with my goodness.”

“I love you, too, you-- _you_.” Rung pinched Whirl’s audial, exasperated affection all over his face.

This was all Whirl needed to leap back to his pedes and spin around again, whooping. “He said he loooves meee!”

They were both completely oblivious to the fact that the entire bar had stopped to gape at their antics. Mechs kept pouring into the bar, but Swerve hadn’t filled a drink order in breems. They were just coming to stare. Swerve would bet his bar that Rewind had been recording from the get-go.

“I think you should cut them off,” Skids said, keeping his voice low.

“Notice how I’m not making any more brightsparks?”

When Whirl flopped back into the booth, Rung rose to shaky knees and started pressing kisses to every bit of armor he could reach. “You’re--you’re _perfect_ , and I _love_ you, you’re too--” He broke off into a laugh as Whirl reached up to run an extraordinarily gentle claw along his cheek. “ _How_ are you so impossibly _sweet_?”

“I had it so wrong,” Swerve muttered. “They’re _disgustingly_ cute.”

Rung started squeezing Whirl’s gun barrels, even digging his fingers into the openings, and Swerve had a feeling he’d be seeing that in recharge fantasies for vorns. Whirl’s engine revved, but he didn’t paw at Rung in return--just gently stroked his back. Rung kept rubbing the guns while cozying up to kiss and--and _bite_ Whirl’s throat.

“Rung needs Primus,” Skids said, shaking his helm in astonishment.

“I think he’s drunk enough to think he’s found him.”

Brainstorm whistled. “Get a room, lovebots!”

They turned to look away from each other just long enough to acknowledge Brainstorm’s shout. “Yes, I think that’s an _excellent_ idea,” Rung said, pressing a trail of kisses along Whirl’s cockpit. “Treasure, I think it’s time we make our way back home.”

“Rung, sweetspark, you’re overcharged.” Whirl broke off as Rung actually _mouthed_ at his gun barrel. “ _Rung_ , I am not ‘facing you while you’re over--hnngh!” Whirl’s claws dented the table; Rung continued dipping his glossa into the gun barrels and kissing the rims.

“I have plenty of charge to share.” Rung looked up at Whirl with optics that were way, _way_ too sultry; cooling fans clicked on throughout the room.

“You need _re_ charge,” Whirl said, scooping Rung up and clambering to his pedes.

Rung apparently saw this change of position as an excuse to grind against Whirl’s windshield. Swerve had to manually override his own cooling fans as Rung arched against Whirl.

Imagining having Rung like that--all over him, pressing up against him, whispering dirty things in his audial--made the psychiatrist roughly five thousand times hotter than Swerve had ever realized. Scrap.

Rung started sucking on Whirl’s pedipalp, and a full-body shudder sent Whirl to his knees in the middle of the bar. He offlined his optic and groaned. “Okay, you’re too drunk to walk, and I’m too drunk to fly. Hate to waste a good buzz, but--” Swerve could see his FIM chip kick in as he steadied. He lowered Rung carefully to the floor and extricated himself from Rung’s determined cuddles. “Sweetspark, I’m gonna transform and give you a ride home, okay?”

Rung pouted. It was almost as cute as Tailgate’s sad turbofox expression. “But I want to kiss you.”

Whirl patted his helm affectionately, his optic soft and warm. “I know, Rung, brightspark, I know.” He got to his pedes and met Rewind’s gaze with sudden suspicion. “If I catch anybody sharing vids of my sweetspark, there’s gonna be trouble.”

The red recording light by Rewind’s helm didn’t switch off, but he did acknowledge the comment with a nod.

Narrowing his optic, Whirl seemed to consider this for a long moment. Then he transformed and popped a door open for Rung without a word. Rung staggered into the seat and sighed as the seatbelt strapped him in.

Before Swerve could so much as wave goodbye, away they went.  


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung finally manages to ask for what he wants. Whirl gives it to him.

When Rung stumbled out of Whirl’s cockpit--after four failed attempts with the seatbelt--he had an epiphany. Submission wouldn’t just be majorly therapeutic; he _wanted_ it. He wanted Whirl to throw him against the berth and take him. He wanted Whirl to force him to stay still and pull his panels open and--

Charge rushed through his frame as his cooling fans clicked into a higher gear. He looked unsteadily up at Whirl, unsure when he’d transformed back, but _oh_ how he wanted those guns back in his mouth, those pedipalps, those claws--he imagined one of Whirl’s sharp pedes holding him flat against the floor, pressing against his spark chamber, and he fell over backwards to expose his throat.

“Whirl, please, I want you.” He splayed himself out on the floor in the most enticing manner he could. “I can’t make it to the berth. Just take me on the floor.”

Whirl stared down at him, that bright optic wide and unwavering, and Rung _whined_.

“I’ll do anything,” Rung insisted. “I’ll do _anything_. I need you. Please, Whirl. _Please_.”

“Rung, you are _really_ drunk.” Whirl knelt beside him and made to gather him up in his arms, but Rung took the opportunity to get his mouth around the tip of Whirl’s claw. The rev of Whirl’s engines spiked charge higher in his frame--he felt as if he’d started to burn from within. “You don’t know what you’re saying, brightspark.”

Rung rolled his optics. His mouth was otherwise occupied, so he set about pinging Whirl with pleas as he’d done in the bar. [[Frag me until I scream,]] he begged. [[Pin me to the floor and _take_ me.]] He added priority markers to the key demands, then decided to repeat them with greater urgency. [[You can step on me and pry open my interface panel and--]]

“ _Rung._ ” Whirl’s voice was thick with static and need; through their bond, Rung could feel his arousal building. He reset his vocalizer, which did nothing for the static. “Okay--okay, you said you’d do anything?”

Rung’s spark nearly leapt out of his chest--he nodded fervently, sending back a cascade of glyphs. [[please/I beg you/yesyesyes]]

“How about this?” Whirl gently pulled his claw from Rung’s mouth and ran it along his side. “You sober up, and I’ll take you as hard and fast as you want.”

Rung activated his fuel intake moderation chip immediately. “Done.” He felt clear-headed and _ready_ , so ready to share this charge with Whirl. “Please, treasure. _Please._ ”

Astonishment washed through their bond. “I, uh.”

“I want you to hold me down and tease me until I can’t take it.” Rung’s voice shook. “Every time I press up, I want you to shove me back against the berth.”

“Um.”

“I want you to take me and not let me overload until you’re satisfied,” he begged. “I want you, Whirl. _Please_.”

“Hold on.” Whirl held up a claw, and Rung stopped immediately. “I said I’d give it a try, and I--I want to--but have you actually thought about boundaries? Because I’m not domming you if I don’t have your boundaries mapped out.”

Rung dragged his hands down his face and struggled to regain his composure. “Do you have any examples I could use to give a proper framework?”

Whirl sat beside him and let Rung clamber up into his lap. “Well, when I’m subbing, I don’t like any dirty talk that’s about how ugly I am. Insults and stuff.”

“It might be too soon for me to experiment with debasement,” Rung agreed.

“And I don’t like being held down by my rotors unless my partner really knows how to handle helicopter builds.”

Rung pressed his cheek to the warm metal of Whirl’s shoulder. “I would prefer to be pinned facing upwards, at least for now?”

“I like being a brat and getting my aft smacked and stuff,” Whirl added. “I’ve gone in for cuts and welds and other painplay, too, when the mood struck.”

Rung’s cooling fans rattled, already overtaxed. “ _Yes_.”

Whirl balked. “Okay, I’m not ready to hurt you,” he said. “We’re, uh. We’re gonna have to work up to that one. That all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Rung cleared his throat and forced his fans back into standby. “Yes, of--I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel pressured. That wasn’t my intention at all.”

“Nah, I got nerves of steel.” Whirl’s optic curved into a grin, and he stroked Rung’s side reassuringly. “So what do you want out of tonight’s scene?”

The charge had receded slightly, deferring to his embarrassment, but now he felt it licking between his transformation seams, scattering sparks against Whirl’s chassis. “I want to be yours,” he said. “I want to not think about anyone or anything other than you.”

“You want me to handle all the thinking and work, huh?” Whirl snorted, but affection rolled across their bond. “Sure. I can take care of you, Rung.”

“You always take such excellent care of me.” Rung dug his fingers into a sensitive joint and grinned as Whirl’s fans went up a notch, flushing warm air over Rung’s already heated frame. “I trust you.”

“No gags or sensory dep stuff,” Whirl said. “I don’t know if you’re into that, but I want you to be able to tell me if something’s up. Do you go nonverbal? We should have nonverbal signals just in case--sub-space can be pretty intense.”

“I want you to shove me back down if I push up against you,” Rung said. “Is that acceptable?”

“Gonna need a way to tell me if you need to change positions, though.” Whirl clicked his claws thoughtfully. “Okay, scoot sideways if you need me to reduce pressure and let you reposition, and push up if you want more pressure. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect. May I--may I call you sir?” The Functionists had never asked him to use that honorific; it hadn’t been grand enough. He sent a copy of the glyph over short-range comms to give Whirl the full nuance--the intimate, loving lines added to the formality.

It was a relief that Whirl neither tensed nor laughed. “I’ve certainly been called worse. If it makes you happy, go for it.”

“Do you think you could order me around, as well?”

Whirl vented. “That’s part of leaving everything to me, right? Don’t worry, Rung--I got ya.”

“What about safewords?”

“I’m not ready to hear you say _no_ and keep going,” Whirl said. “So consider ‘wait’ the yellow light and ‘stop’ the red light. I’ll check in if I start getting worried--or is that gonna break the scene too much?”

“Your comfort is as important as mine,” Rung said. “Please do check in as often as you like.” He hesitated. “Could we--could we try now?”

Whirl released him from the embrace, and they both got to their pedes. A hungry tension pulled them together; after a moment, Whirl nodded.

Rung went over and settled down on the berth, frame humming with nervous excitement. “How do you want me?”

Whirl sucked in a deep vent, and suddenly his posture was sharper. “On your back.”

Rung threw himself backwards, arms above his helm and legs spread, almost giddy with anticipation. He could feel Whirl’s amusement across their bond as he took in Rung’s grin, and he arched his back up to get the light to catch on the window to his spark. Sure enough, Whirl’s engine answered with a rev.

“Am I gonna need to hold you down?”

Rung exposed his throat in a show of submission. “I’m afraid so,” he said, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Whirl’s claw came down to rest against Rung’s wrists. Rung pushed up against the pressure, and Whirl pressed down hard enough that Rung’s optics flickered as charge rushed through him. His cooling fans clattered on, leaping from standby to a full roar in moments.

“Oh, you like that, do you?”

“Yes, sir.” A shiver chased the charge through his frame, and he relaxed in Whirl’s grip. The point of pressure held steady, anchoring him even as he went strutless. “ _Yes_ , sir.”

Whirl’s optic curved into an approving grin. “Good boy.” He crouched over Rung, and the world beyond the berth fell away. Whirl had him--Whirl could be his world for a joor. The narrowed focus felt like freedom, and when he shuttered his optics, it felt like flying.

When Whirl dragged his free claw down Rung’s side, he arched into the touch and was rewarded with a pinch at his hip. Charge crackled from the point of contact, and a needy whine slipped out of his vocalizer.

“You want something?” Whirl’s field rang with amusement and arousal. Through their shared bond, Rung could feel the sense of awed wonder underneath his act.

“ _You._ ” Rung wasn’t sure whether it was an answer or an admonition; he wanted _more_ , and Whirl knew it.

The yellow optic above him curved into a grin. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“May I open my interface hatch, please, sir?” Rung asked, doing his best to sound polite and calm--unfortunately, Whirl’s claw stroked a sensitive transformation seam halfway through his sentence--the second half was largely static as _need_ pulsed in his chest. “Please, sir?” he tried again, fighting down the static.

“Since you asked so sweetly.” Whirl nuzzled Rung’s cheek and spoke quietly against Rung’s audial. “If you want to, go for it.”

It was a break in character, but the reminder that he _could_ choose--that he could keep the panel beside his spark sealed away, that he could stop everything with a single word--was so reassuring that his interface panel transformed out of the way of its own accord. The panels protecting his spark remained irised shut, but the rest of his chest plates parted, granting Whirl access to his cable and port.

“Primus, you’re beautiful.” Whirl’s grip on Rung’s wrists went slack, and Rung shoved up against him, eager for more contact. The world fell away again when Whirl shoved him back down, and charge licked at his entire frame, hungry for contact Whirl wasn’t giving him.

“Please,” Rung begged, tipping his head back in a show of devoted submission, his entire frame limp in Whirl’s grip. “ _Please_ , sir, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please--” Rung’s vocalizer spat static as Whirl transformed the claw not pinning him down and ran a soft brush along the cable coiled against his spark chamber. “Sir, please, please--”

Whirl’s touch was maddeningly gentle and sweet, but his hold was too secure for Rung to press into it, to demand the friction he wanted. He could only have sweetness and gentleness until Whirl decided otherwise--and he would have to be persuasive, because Whirl _loved_ driving him incoherent with soft touches.

“Please hook into me,” he said. “Feel this with me.” _Suffer your intolerably soft touches yourself, you aft._

The brush ran featherlight along the outer sides of Rung’s spark chamber, and the flare of arousal drove back any other words he might have planned.

“ _Please._ ” Rung bucked up against him insistently, held still and steady by the immovable claw above his helm.

“I’m having fun just like this,” Whirl said, frustratingly calm as that brush swirled against the outermost ring of the iris that protected his spark. The same pattern again and again, moving in circles--

Rung keened as he recognized the glyphs. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Words Whirl might one day write as a vow. He had to manually override the automatic command to reveal his spark. The glyphs continued around and around his spark casing-- _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“Sir, _please_ \--” Rung couldn’t be blamed for whining--it was hardly whining when one was being _tortured with kindness_. “I need you. Please, I need you.”

Whirl hummed cheerfully in response, adding a few extra flourishes to the delicate brushwork-- _I love you more than anything._

Rung’s vents rattled with the effort of keeping up with his cooling fans. He could feel that love flooding the bond, filling his spark from within. It was too much--it was nowhere near enough. “So help me, Whirl--”

A rubber-tipped tool replaced the brush at once, digging into the most intimate of transformation seams, and Rung’s voice broke off into static.

“That’s no way to address me.” Whirl tutted, shaking his helm. “Try again.”

The rubber-tipped tool receded, and that impossibly soft brush took its place.

“Sir,” Rung began, but his voice was barely more than a static-laden groan, “Sir, please jack into me. I need you, sir.”

Whirl dragged the brush across his port, and he whimpered, offlining his optics altogether. He hadn’t been jacked into in millions of years--hadn’t trusted anyone with his cable since the Functionists. He _wanted_ it. He wanted to remember what it could be like without pain--or, at least, with affection.

“Please.” Rung’s voice had gone hoarse with need, but Whirl overpowered him. He couldn’t increase the friction--couldn’t direct it. “Please take me, sir, please, please, _please_.” When the touches remained excruciatingly gentle, he almost sobbed with need. “You said you’d take me as hard and fast as I wanted!”

“I said that I’d take care of you, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Whirl’s voice was calm and unhurried, just like the featherlight glide of the brush circling his port. _I love you. I’ll look after you._ The promises burned against the sensitive metal. “Be careful what you wish for, brightspark.”

Rung’s servos flexed, grabbing at nothing. He needed more contact--needed to give back--didn’t know how to handle or tolerate the gentle, loving brush against his most intimate sensors. Every micrometer of him _burned_. “I--” His voice cracked. When he tried to plead again, it came out as a binary shriek. _Please, sir, I beg of you, I can’t take this, please, have mercy!_

The rubber-tipped implement replaced the brush, digging into the seam around his port, and he screamed with pure _need_. He wanted to push into the pressure until his port dented and warped. He wanted Whirl to shove him back down and take his cord and open up his systems and take him apart. He wanted Whirl to drag those beautiful claws over every transformation seam and dig in and--

It wasn’t until Whirl grabbed his cord and he gasped static that he realized his pleas had all been screamed aloud.

The claw against his interface panel was scorching hot; apparently, all of Whirl’s vents and cooling fans at max output couldn’t disperse the heat. He jacked Rung into his own port--so hot it stung, it burned, it was perfect and everything Rung had never known he needed--and almost immediately completed the circuit by jacking into Rung in turn.

Rung’s charge surged through the new pathway before he could rein it back in. He answered every information access request with a wholesparked _yes_ , then realized that _he_ could ask, too--could ask for anything. How long had it been since someone had done something with his port other than deface or mutilate it? He could hardly remember how to send information requests, how to do anything other than _give_.

And there Whirl was, leading him through the process, giving him access to thoughts and emotions and sparkpulse and his own experience of having Rung twisting and begging beneath him. Whirl sent a surge through their link, and Rung twisted his head sideways to muffle his cry against his arm. Data packets stroked his nervous system from within, pinpointing areas he’d only ever known as painful and smoothing them over with soft kisses and gentle massages and a sense of love and affection that sent Rung’s spark spinning.

“Remember, no overloading until I say so,” Whirl said, flicking one of Rung’s antennae, and Rung couldn’t have said whether his answer was laughter or a sob.

***

Every request Whirl sent was met with a spike of heated need--every chance to say _yes_ left Rung shaking. He’d never been granted such unfettered access to a partner’s systems. He could barely hide the awe he felt as he moved through Rung’s hard drives and processors, finding the spots that hurt and trying to heal them. Not once did Rung flinch away from him; not once did he offer the slightest hint of self-defense when Whirl pinged for access to some spot that had done nothing but ache for centuries.

He couldn’t fix the damage, but he could ease the pain. He could send data packets mimicking massage and kisses and anything Rung might need to the spots his claws would never be able to soothe. He could keep track of Rung’s vital systems and make sure his charge didn’t cycle too high, carefully regulating the surges he sent down the line to fuel Rung’s arousal.

Rung opened up to him like he’d never wanted anything more out of life--with Rung’s frame shoving up against him and demanding more contact and pressure until Whirl had to ignore his requests because the readouts he was getting looked like they could be dangerous--with Rung’s voice weak and binary and bled through with static as he begged for anything Whirl would give--and Whirl’s own charge shuddered beneath his armor, reverberating through his systems at nearly painful levels.

Fear kept him from overloading. If he lost control and his claws tightened the slightest degree, he might need to take Rung back to Ratchet.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he said. “You’re so good, Rung. You’re incredible.” He answered each plea with praise, encouraging every single one of Rung’s urges to take anything at all for himself. “You’re gorgeous, Rung, you’re so fraggin’ gorgeous.”

He _was_. His face twisted with joy and arousal and need. His frame arched up, the glare catching on his chest window drawing attention to his spark in a too-intimate way even with it irised shut. His vents and fans alone couldn’t cope with the heat, and his mouth hung open as he gasped for cool air. Just the _sounds_ he was making would’ve been enough to get Whirl halfway to overload.

“Are you recording this?” Whirl flicked Rung’s palm to draw out a whimper.

Wordless affirmation pinged back, the glyphs misshapen and out of order.

“Good.” Whirl didn’t mean to growl, but his engine was gunning as hard as it ever had, and his entire frame shook. “That’s exactly what I want. Good.”

Rung’s charge edged higher--already into the yellow, almost into the red. With their systems tangled up as they were, there was nowhere for the charge to escape. Their charge fed into one another, amplifying arousal and sending sparks skittering between their frames. One of them had to give--and the other was almost certain to follow.

“Overload on my next surge,” Whirl said. He had no mouth to pant with--no additional means of venting. “Okay?”

Grateful glyphs showered him through their connection. A clear and unambiguous yes.

Whirl braced himself and sent the surge.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung's past continues to come back to haunt him. Whirl tries to help the only way he knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the fic tags to warn for this a while ago, but from this chapter forward there is going to be: (past) coerced pornography, and (past and present) distribution of said coerced pornography including characters self servicing to the vids without knowing the participant did not consent.

Rung barely noticed Whirl releasing his grip on Rung as overload tore through him. All he was aware of was the freedom to throw his arms around Whirl and hook his legs around the bucking hips--beyond that, every circuit in his frame had warmed and sparked with pleasure deeper than anything he’d experienced in his memory.

Thought failed him.

When he came back to himself, still shuddering with aftershocks, Whirl had slumped to one side, narrowly managing not to crush Rung. Shivers wracked his frame, and he ran trembling claws along Rung’s cheek.

Rung turned almost instinctively to face those gorgeous, powerful claws, suddenly awestruck by how tender and gentle they could be. “You’re beautiful.” His lips vibrated with the static-laden words as he pressed them into the claws. “You’re incredible.”

Whirl laughed shakily. “You sayin’ that to me or my claws?”

“Both.”

Still connected, Rung felt the shocked joy flare through his own system as well as their bond.

“Your hands okay?” Whirl asked. “I let ‘em go in time?”

Rung answered by dragging his fingers along Whirl’s claws, kneading the sensors he could detect through his access to Whirl’s systems. A verbal reply would’ve required him to stop kissing those claws, which was obviously unacceptable. As he’d hoped, Whirl melted against the berth, relaxing beneath Rung’s servos.

“Are you trying to get me going for a second round?” Whirl groaned. “I haven’t had an overload like that in eons. I’ve still got tertiary systems rebooting.”

Over their connection, Rung sent a single glyph indicating the same was true for him. He liked the warm metal against his lips too much to part from it. His own tertiary systems continued rebooting, pinging his HUD as they came back online. Mostly minor alerts--lubricant levels at eighty percent in his knees, filters to change by his primary cooling fans, an updated play count--

He stopped cold, unable to open or dismiss the alert. The play count ticked up again. And again.

“What’s that?” Whirl asked.

He offlined his optics and rested his forehead against Whirl’s claw, trying to even out his ventilations. The play count ticked upwards.

“Rung, you okay?”

“Open the alert for me,” he said. They were tangled up in one another’s systems, and he was still paralyzed and unable to act. “Please.”

“Do you want to read--”

“ _No_.”

Whirl redirected the alert away from Rung’s HUD, probably to his own. He went quiet for a long moment.

Rung couldn’t bear it. “How bad is it?” His voice was hoarse with static.

“Uh, are you sure you want to know?”

Rung shook his head, spark twisting in his chest.

“What are these _for_ , anyway?”

“The Functionists--” Rung reset his vocalizer. “The Functionists recorded a series of pornographic videos to discredit me.”

He could feel Whirl’s dread and fury through both the cables and their bond. “These are play counts of bots watching you get raped?”

Rung twisted to bury his face in the crook of Whirl’s arm. The sharp rotor blades by his helm felt like a shield. “The--the other actors in the films were unaware of my coding. Viewers would likewise be unaware--”

“Who the frag is watching these? Why the frag would they make you keep track of the play count?”

“I usually only get a few pings every vorn. They’ve been difficult to find since the war.” He hesitated. “How many views?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Whirl pulled him in for a hug. “Look, if you want, I can disable the pings. You can still find the play count, but you won’t have to get notified every time there’s a new view. That’s scrap.”

“How many views, Whirl?”

Whirl tensed. “About a hundred for each vid.”

Rung had to reset his vocalizer three times before he could get even a staticky reply out. “It’s the Lost Light.” He vented hard. “Someone on the Lost Light found them, and now they--they--they--” His voxcoder fritzed. “They _know_.”

No one offship remembered him or thought twice about him whether he was or wasn’t present. The crew of the Lost Light were the only mechs who would recognize him in those kinds of numbers--the only ones who would give such videos a second look. They’d been made strictly to humiliate him, to ruin his name; they weren’t especially high quality. They wouldn’t have appeal to anyone who didn’t know him. Not in this day and age.

“Hey, nobody’s gonna give you scrap even if they did find the vids, okay?” Whirl ran his free claw down Rung’s spinal strut. “You got that? Anybody gives you trouble, you just ping me. Boom. Problem solved.”

Connected as they were, it was easy to see the bloodshed Whirl was implying. Clearly comical amounts of energon and no real gore.

Rung managed a laugh. “My hero.”

“Got the _my_ part right, at least.” Whirl nuzzled up against him. “Hey, did I do okay with the domming thing?”

A transparent change of subject. Rung sent a pulse of grateful affection over the bond and their interconnected cables. “You did _wonderfully_ , treasure.” To emphasize his point, he gathered up a data packet with his experience of every moment since he’d started sending Whirl dirty glyphs at the bar up until his overload. “For your perusal.”

Whirl accepted the data eagerly. “I’m gonna have to figure out what really turns your crank so I can step up my game next time.”

The thought of a next time helped Rung smile. “That sounds lovely, darling.” He relaxed by degrees as Whirl kept stroking his back. “I might need a bit of quiet rest after--after all the excitement.”

They were still connected, so Whirl surely knew he meant the revelation about the pornography, but he didn’t want to mention it directly.

“How about we disconnect and you kick back and relax here for a few joors while I hit the training room?” Whirl’s claws were so soothing; he felt ready to fall into recharge. “We can debrief when we’ve both cooled down some.”

“That sounds perfect.”

***

Whirl kept massaging Rung after they’d disconnected, leaving only when Rung fell into a light recharge. He didn’t know how to close off the bond, so he poured all of his focus into staying calm as he stalked the halls, audials pricked for any sign that someone might be watching one of those vids. He made his way all the way back to Swerve’s before he caught anybody being suspicious.

But a crowd of mechs gathered around a datapad? A crowd of mechs who took one look at him and immediately started shushing each other?

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” He’d gone for bright and cheery, but his voice had an edge to it.

“Nothing!” Rewind scrambled to subspace the datapad, but Whirl snatched it out of his hands before he could manage it, dangling it out of the little bot’s reach. “Look, it’s no big deal--”

Whirl looked at the datapad and was confronted with the sight of Rung bent over a desk not unlike the one he had in his office. Someone--presumably a patient--had hooked into him and then twisted Rung away so he couldn’t see his face.

The datapad cracked in his claw.

“You sick fraggers get off on watching a friend of yours get raped?” His voice was low and dangerous. He couldn’t stand to look at them. He needed to get Rung off the ship _immediately_. “Thinkin’ about ways you can pull this kinda scrap yourselves?”

“If you’d actually _watched_ the video before breaking it, you’d see that he was having the time of his life.” Rewind crossed his arms. “There are interviews after where he talks about it!”

Glass shards as fine as powder fluttered to the floor as Whirl ground his claw into the device. He’d seen how orders could make Rung do anything. Make him look and sound like he wanted something when his EM field screamed in protest.

They hadn’t, he reminded himself. They hadn’t, and Rung could probably feel him getting angry across the bond, and if he came to investigate he would have another panic attack. Let the poor mech _sleep_.

“ _Right_.” Whirl’s voice was brittle. “I don’t care what he says in the cooldown scrap.” He turned to stare the crowd down, every bit of his fury and disgust and bloodlust burning bright in his EM field. “You _will not_ watch these.”

“If he consented to the--”

“He _didn’t_.” Whirl smashed the datapad on the floor and vented hard. Couldn’t smash the crew. He’d go to the brig, and Rung would be alone with bots who couldn’t tell what _yes_ was. “I don’t fraggin’ care what it sounds like, what it _looks_ like, he _didn’t_!”

When the red had cleared from his vision, everyone had scrambled a few steps further back. A few chairs had been knocked over as they’d fled. He steadied himself against the table. Stay out of the brig. Stay on guard. Keep Rung safe. Don’t murder everyone in the room.

“If he didn’t want it, why would he say he did?” Trailcutter had had too much to drink, clearly. He hadn’t even flinched away--just kept staring morosely into his empty glass.

And like Pit was he gonna tell anybody Rung had slavecoding. No fraggin’ way. He’d heard the rumors--he knew that there were mechs who thought raping a bot with dormant slavecoding would get it to imprint on them. Instead, Whirl swept a claw across the top of the table, sending a shower of broken glass to the ground.

“Whatever,” Whirl hissed. “I don’t care what you think. If I catch anybody-- _anybody_ \--watching dirty vids of my courtmate, I’m not gonna warn ‘em twice. Spread the word.” He narrowed his optic, zooming in on Rewind. “Next mech to watch one of these videos _dies_.”

Let ‘em think he was an overprotective bot in love. They’d thought worse of him before.

Rewind’s visor blanched.

“And remember, you little fragger--” Whirl leaned in, letting his weapons systems online at last. “I saved your life, but whatever I’ve _given_ can be _taken_ just as easily. You got that?”

They all nodded mutely. Whirl felt savage, felt like grabbing one of them--any of them--and making an example. Instead he crushed what remained of the datapad under his heel as he turned and left for the training room.

He _really_ needed to break something.

***

When Rung came back online, he could feel Whirl’s aggression through their bond. [[Whirl?]]

The aggression cleared up at once. [[Hey, Rung. You need more alone time?]]

[[I’d prefer to cuddle, I think.]] Rung stretched to take up as much of the berth as possible. [[Is something the matter?]]

[[One snugglecopter in transit, sweetspark. I’ll be there in a klik.]] He hesitated. [[I was just beating up some test dummies. That’s probably--whatever you’re getting on your end of the bond. Did I wake you?]]

[[No, no, certainly not.]] Rung felt worry seeping across the bond and pulsed back reassurance. [[I only needed a short defragmentation cycle.]]

Whirl pinged back in the affirmative, but he didn’t say anything else, and the worry continued washing over Rung from Whirl’s side of the bond. By the time Whirl made it into their habsuite, Rung felt decidedly uneasy.

“Are you all right?” Rung asked, beckoning for Whirl to join him on the berth. “I apologize; we should have debriefed immediately after the scene. I didn’t realize you were distressed.”

Whirl’s optic went wide, and Rung could feel the shock flaring in his chest. “What? No way, Rung, I had a great time.” He curled protectively around Rung, putting himself between him and the door. “How about you? Anything you want more of next time? Less of?”

Rung relaxed against Whirl as his EM field eased into something both loving and fiercely protective. “I underestimated your patience for teasing,” he said, unable to repress his grin.

“You _specifically_ said that you wanted me to pin you down and tease you until you couldn’t take it.” Amusement rolled off of him. “As soon as you said you couldn’t take it, I stopped teasing.”

Rung laughed. “Well, I may regret saying this, but I think I can take a good deal more teasing than that.”

Whirl hummed thoughtfully. “That’s where safewords come in handy,” he said. “If you wanna beg and not get what you want right away.”

“I _did_ enjoy the begging.” Rung sighed happily at the memory. “What if I address you as Master when it gets to be too much for me? That would be something I could do even if triggered.”

Whirl snorted. “Yeah, that’d get me to back off like a bucket of coolant.”

Not exactly the tone Rung had hoped to set with this particular conversation. “At the moment, I'd rather get you back _on_ me.” He pushed back against Whirl and fought the urge to giggle when Whirl pinched his aft, deliberately arching in a way that would allow Whirl to get a good look at it. “Do you like the view?”

Whirl’s engine revved. “You _do_ have the nicest aft on the ship.”

Rung laughed. “You can’t even see it past the scooter backpack.”

“You don’t exactly wear the scooter to bed.”

“Maybe I should go without it altogether,” Rung said. “Do you think I’d catch mechs staring?”

This didn’t provoke the flirtation he expected. Instead a vicious surge of protectiveness blanketed him as Whirl’s grip tightened. “Anybody makes you uncomfortable, Rung, you ping me. I’ll take care of ‘em.”

“Whirl?”

Whirl’s grip eased. “Nothin’. Anything else you want more of next time?”

Rung turned to frown at Whirl, but he couldn’t read that optic--and his EM field had retreated unnervingly. “You could be rougher with me?”

The dramatic roll of Whirl’s optic seemed to be missing something without the exasperated fondness of his EM field. “I was in your systems, Rung. Any more pressure and you could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Well, I _would_ like to try that kind of submission at some point,” Rung admitted. “Perhaps if we spoke to Brainstorm, he could develop some toys for us? If anyone could produce something that caused pain without doing any damage, I suspect it would be him.”

“I’m only using Brainstorm’s toys on you if you test ‘em out on me first.”

“Well, I’m scheduled to have another meeting with Brainstorm in a joor or two to work on developing the holomatter avatars further. I could ask him.”

“Maybe I should go with you,” Whirl said, his optic narrowing as the protectiveness surged to the forefront of their bond. For an instant, he lost control of his EM field, where worry crackled alongside anxiety.

Rung gave him the sternest look he could manage--though he’d never developed the expression especially well. “Whirl, what’s going on? Something has clearly upset you. If we’re going to be wed someday, I need you to trust me.”

Whirl tensed for a long moment, holding Rung’s stare. Then he sagged against the berth and looked up at the ceiling. “You’ve got a right to know,” he said. “I, uh. I found the mechs who watched--well.”

Rung froze. “The holovids?” His voice was smaller and more frightened than he’d intended. “Of--me?”

Whirl nodded. “But don’t you worry,” he said. “I made ‘em think I’m a jealous aft who doesn’t want bots looking at dirty vids of my courtmate. Your secret’s still safe.” He glowered at the ceiling. “And I put the fear of Whirl into ‘em, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.” He turned that intense focus on Rung. “They say a damn thing, Rung, and you ping me.”

Rung knew with sudden, unwavering certainty that Whirl would murder to keep him safe. That he would drop everything and rush to his side to rip a mech to shreds without even hearing Rung’s reasoning.

He reached up to set a soothing hand against the side of Whirl’s helm. “I will.”

Even as he said it, a morbid curiosity settled around his spark. He’d never been able to watch the pornography he’d ‘starred’ in. The only memories he had of it were of filming.

Which scenes had they used in the final cut? Had they edited any of the footage? What would he look like to a mech who didn’t know?

As the play count on his HUD ticked resolutely upward, he knew that the problem was not as solved as Whirl believed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung is curious, Brainstorm is curiouser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (just fyi y'all might want to check out the explanation the author left in the comments section of the previous chapter to clarify who knows what w/r/t Rung's slavecoding)

When Rung walked into Brainstorm’s laboratory later that day, he should have felt surprised to hear the tinny sound of his own moaning over cheap speakers. Instead he stood, still and silent and blank-faced, just inside the door.

Brainstorm’s attention remained focused on the datapad in one hand. His other massaged the spark half-concealed in his chest, sending charge shooting over his fingers. The entire room felt overly warm and stank of ozone; he’d been at it a while.

Propriety demanded he announce his presence. Curiosity urged him to take small, quiet steps around the side of the room, finally coming to a halt behind Brainstorm’s shoulder.

How strange to see himself like this. The other actor--Rung had never been told his name--pawed at Rung’s chest plates, his denta sunk deep into Rung’s throat. He remembered how badly it had stung--remembered how energon had gummed up all the joints in his neck and shoulder for the following decaorn because his Masters had wanted him to suffer the shame of the mark.

There wasn’t any energon in the video. How strange to edit that out. He’d thought they’d keep that in.

The cooling fans rattling over the speakers weren’t his. Oh, they’d certainly ordered him to keep his going at full blast--he couldn’t forget that. His frame hadn’t been running hot at all; he’d been so cold that his extremities had begun going numb after the third take.

And they’d dubbed the audio of his fans despite that.

He watched the Rung of the past throw back his head and moan when the other actor whispered against his audial. It was an awful sound--too realistic. He’d been well-trained. He knew what they all wanted to hear.

Apparently not his _fans_. Why had they ordered him to run them only to edit it out? Were they less alluring than they’d hoped? Was there something _wrong_ with his fans?

Brainstorm panted, heat rolling off his frame, completely oblivious to Rung’s presence. Yes--yes, he could see how it would appear that he wanted it. It was natural for Brainstorm to have a reaction like this to pornography. He didn’t know.

Somehow, Rung didn’t believe that knowing would convince anyone to look away.

“My leg fell asleep in that position,” he said, keeping his voice completely bland and uninterested. He didn’t react as Brainstorm yelped with surprise, dropping the datapad with a clatter. “It doesn’t work as well in reality as in a fantasy.” Like most things.

“Rung!” Brainstorm’s voice was unnaturally high; he had slammed his chest panels shut so abruptly that they bit the fingers still kneading his spark. Charge flickered in the gaps of his transformation seams. “I, uh. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were otherwise engaged.” He didn’t let his voice go cold. Somehow he felt more--more _blank_ than anything. “Should I return another time to work on the holomatter avatars?”

“Uh,” Brainstorm’s gaze flicked from Rung to the datapad, where he was whimpering and pressing up against his attacker--the other actor, rather. “I just. Damn, doc, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Mm.” Rung kept his face neutral as panic mounted in Brainstorm’s optics.

“You’re--you’re really hot in this.” Brainstorm fumbled for the stop button, optics still locked on Rung’s. “Incredibly responsive.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He’d been under orders to appear as aroused as possible; it seemed that he’d at least met expectations.

“I mean, you’re always so quiet--I didn’t think you’d be loud in the berth. Uh, not that I thought about what you’d be like in the berth!” Brainstorm finally found the pause button, and the pornography’s gasping muted, leaving only the sound of Brainstorm’s wheezing fans. “I mean, uh. Not that it’s bad either way.”

Rung didn’t know how to react; his face remained unmoved.

Brainstorm forced a painfully flat laugh. “You think I could make you scream like that?”

It wouldn’t be difficult. He could still fake it as well as he had then. “Yes, I’m sure you could.”

The lack of interest in Rung’s voice contrasted with his choice of words seemed to throw Brainstorm for a loop. “So is this what you and Whirl have been getting up to when he hauls you out of Swerve’s?”

Rung had the momentary thought that Whirl would want to be pinged about this. Would probably want to rip Brainstorm into pieces. The interfacing in the holovid had been violent; given what others thought of Whirl, that was probably what most of them pictured.

None of them saw the care Whirl took with Rung’s limits.

He smiled. “Not even remotely similar.”

***

Okay, so he’d been caught rubbing off to porn. By the mech who had starred in the pornvid he’d been rubbing off to. Which sounded like the start of a pornvid in and of itself, except that Brainstorm could _not_ get a read on Rung’s reaction.

That smile didn’t reach his field or even his optics; it was like he’d gone completely flat. No flustered embarrassment, no anger--nothing. Just a blank field and a blank smile and--and okay, maybe that was a little worrying.

His optics passed over Rung’s lips--the lips he’d watched mouthing Whirl’s gun barrels, the lips he’d been imagining wrapped around guns of his own--and his fans clicked, overtaxed. He’d had no idea the little doctor could look so damn hot. A calm, cool expression in the face of something like this? That was more than Brainstorm could manage.

Still, he was clearly shutting down the conversation--every answer had a finality to it that made it impossible to keep going down that vein. Trying to tamp down his charge and decidedly _not_ think about how many fingers he’d seen fit in Rung’s mouth in the vids--or how many mechs he’d seen using him as a cable splitter--or how many times he’d replayed the parts where Rung overloaded--

Frag. At least his mask hid the fact that his mouth was hanging open.

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “So, uh. Holomatter avatars.”

Something of the hardness in Rung’s expression eased. “I thought we could work on diversifying their pigmentation,” he said. “I know you got your sample from Verity, but my research indicates that humans have a sizeable variety in terms of skin color.”

Brainstorm threw himself wholeheartedly into the work to hide the awkwardness tying knots around his spark. Pigmentation was easy to vary--facial features and hair texture gave him a little more trouble, which helped him redirect his charge into something productive. Racers could work off charge by doing a few laps; he could throw himself into science to at least some of the same effect.

As the joors passed, Rung slowly unflattened himself, warming to his usual snark. By the time they’d done a few demos of the updated holomatter avatars, Rung was himself again.

“We’ll have to get a few of the others to test the new avatars,” Rung said. “Perhaps we’ll get the chance before we land on another organic world.”

“I’ll buy a round at Swerve’s and bring ‘em back here to experiment.” Brainstorm grinned under his mask. “It’s no good if they fritz when a mech’s overcharged.”

Rung nodded, not quite smiling. “I’ll leave that in your capable hands, then.”

Brainstorm waved as Rung made for the door. “Ship’s genius, at your service!”

When Rung hesitated and turned back, Brainstorm was afraid he’d really fragged the turbofox this time. But Rung just looked thoughtful. “That reminds me,” he said. “Would you be able to accommodate a personal request?”

Brainstorm arched an optic ridge at him. “Personal request?”

“Adaptive interfacing toys would be extremely beneficial,” he said. “Ones that could be manipulated with claws, for example.”

Just when he’d finally gotten his cooling fans under control. “I can probably hook you up.” Primus, that sounded a lot more lewd than he’d intended. “What did you have in mind?”

Rung’s wishlist was impressive. Full-frame restraints, implements that could cause pain without injury, inhibitors to keep a mech from overloading without permission, ways to mute a mech without gagging them, ways to gag a mech without muting them--

By the time Rung was out the door, Brainstorm’s entire frame was burning with charge again. Hot _damn_ , he wished he’d known the little doctor was a freak in the berth _before_ Whirl had gone after him.

Booting up the holovid of Rung jacked into thirty different mechs, Brainstorm wondered if he still went for orgies. Maybe he’d be so overcome with gratitude for the sex toys that he’d at least _consider_ it.

Brainstorm rubbed at his spark again and tried to keep his voice down as he imagined having his own lips wrapped around one of Whirl’s guns while Rung went after the other. If he’d ever had a hotter fantasy, he definitely couldn’t think of it.


	18. rewind interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewind tries to de-stress, fails spectacularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter include graphically described gore and sexual violence, as well as suicidal ideation.

Rewind flicked through his datapads, knees tucked under his chin. Whirl had destroyed one of them, but he had the data backed up--he always had the data backed up. He was still on edge, though--still felt Whirl’s optic boring into him. Sorting his datapads wasn’t killing the anxiety this time; he felt jumpy and nervous in a way he hadn’t in ages.

Well, probably as good a time as any to go through archived footage to look for Dominus Ambus. He still had to go through most of the data from those discs he’d bought off Swindle. They’d been pricey, but hey--for the real deal? For the chance to get some closure? Yeah, worth it.

He loaded up the clips and started skimming them at high speeds. He’d been able to condense the Autobot/Decepticon war down to a few seconds for Tailgate; it never took him long to play back data. That’s what he was _for_.

About twenty clips in, Rung’s face popped up. Rewind frowned--had he been so out of it that he’d queued up the wrong clip?

“Oh, I had a wonderful time,” Rung said, smiling. Yeah, he’d seen this--one of those interview segments after the pornvids Rung had done. “My costar was so careful--”

“Hold,” a voice said, and Rung froze in place so abruptly that Rewind thought that the vid had errored out. He checked the playback data and realized that this _was_ the next snuff clip--and it was still playing. “Tell me the truth, little one. Did you have fun? No acting.”

Cleaning fluid immediately pooled in Rung’s optics. “Please, Master, please don’t make me do this again--I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, _please_ , _please_ don’t make me--”

“I asked whether you had fun, little one. I’m not interested in listening to a drone beg.”

“It hurt.” Rung’s voice hit an almost hysterical pitch, breaking into static as he sobbed. “It wasn’t--no, Master, it wasn’t fun.”

“Didn’t you want it?”

“ _No_ ,” Rung said, so emphatic that Rewind was taken aback. “No, no-- _no_ , please don’t--” His vocalizer clicked off abruptly, muted without any visible muter on his throat. It reset several times before he managed to speak again. “I don’t want to do any of this. Please.”

“Tell me about how much it hurt.”

“When he held me down against the desk in the second take, he jammed my finger in a drawer,” Rung said. His optics darted around the room, not focusing on anything. “When he slammed it shut, it--it snapped my finger in two.”

“Yes, I remember that. Wiggle your fingers for us, little one.”

Rung obliged at once, flinching as one finger remained stiff. Zooming in, Rewind could just barely make out a line on it.

“We patched you up well, didn’t we?” The voice chuckled. “What did the medic do?”

“He glued it back together for me,” Rung said. His hands returned to his lap, where they trembled. “It stings.”

Rewind flinched back in horror. Glue was for emergency patch jobs on the front lines, not a repair done by an actual medic.

“If it hurts so much, remove it.”

Rung shook, face contorting with pain and terror, but he reached down and--and _ripped off his own finger_.

“There, all taken care of.” The voice sounded smug. Before Rung could do more than whimper, he spoke again. “Back in character. Finish rehearsing your lines.”

“--with my limits,” Rung said, the smile back on his face. Energon bled from the stump of his ruined finger; tears still slicked his cheeks. “I really can’t say how much fun it was--you really had to be there to appreciate it.”

Something was very, very wrong with Rung’s perfectly calm and content expression. His inflection and words and gestures were all eerily familiar, too--when Rewind brought up a copy of the pornvid, they matched up flawlessly. They could be overlayed without any differences in pitch, the curve of his smile, the sweep of his hand. If it weren’t for the cleaning solvent still streaking Rung’s cheeks and the still-bleeding stump of a finger flicking energon around with each gesture, Rewind would have thought the middle clip had been spliced in.

He couldn’t think of _anything_ that would cause Rung to unhesitatingly rip off his own finger. Maybe this was an alternate take for--for some other genre? Experimental snuff flicks? Surreal stuff? There--there’d probably been a market for that. A little artsier to go for the uncanny. Yeah, he could see Rung doing artsy work.

The clip ended, and the next one opened from the perspective of a cheap camera. The video quality had degraded; static laced the edges of the screen. Rung stood, chin held high and still, beside a mech that Rewind recognized from his database: Three-of-Twelve, one of the Functionists on the Council. Starscream had killed him millions of years ago.

“Don’t waste a drop,” the mech said.

Rung obediently opened his mouth as Three of Twelve tipped an energon cube over his lips and poured until it nearly spilled over his lips. Rung remained absolutely still.

It looked almost like a scene--maybe a discarded scene from another pornvid. Before they’d dubbed in the music. But Three-of-Twelve wouldn’t star in a pornvid. That didn’t make any sense. And that was _definitely_ Three-of-Twelve holding Rung by the throat, looming over him.

Three-of-Twelve’s proboscis extended, pushing into Rung’s mouth and plunging deep enough to dig into his throat. Rung tensed, and tremors wracked his frame.

“I told you to be _still_ ,” Three-of-Twelve said, unencumbered by the energon he was siphoning from Rung’s mouth. He squeezed Rung’s neck until Rung stopped shaking, then reached up and snapped one of his antennae in half.

Rung’s joints visibly locked up to prevent him from flinching.

And then Three-of-Twelve shoved their helms together, deliberately triggering Rung’s gag reflex. Panic flooded his optics as he choked, his servos leaping up to keep the energon secure in his mouth.

The moment a single droplet hit the floor, Three-of-Twelve kicked Rung’s legs out from under him. Rewind saw Rung’s mouth close as he hit the floor--saw his intake work involuntarily against the energon--and Three-of-Twelve’s pede came cracking down against Rung’s jaw.

“Did you _drink my high-grade_?” he roared.

Rung’s optics went wide and terrified; he couldn’t answer with a mouth full of energon, but he tried to shake his head against Three-of-Twelve’s pede.

“Don’t lie to me!” Three-of-Twelve stomped again, this time crushing Rung’s neck. Energon spilt from his mouth as he gasped, curling in on himself.

Rewind watched in horror as Three-of-Twelve tore into Rung--ripping off armor, denting what he left behind, snapping struts when Rung so much as whimpered. When he pulled back, it was anyone’s guess whether more of the energon on the floor had come from Rung’s mouth or from his fuel lines.

Three-of-Twelve said a word that sent Rewind back to the days when he’d been considered disposable. He stopped the video immediately, reeling. He’d called Rung not just a slur reserved for disposables and drones--a slur with the implication that Rung had no use, no worth, no purpose. Slated for decommissioning.

Rewind tried to stop his hands from shaking. He’d lost friends to that word. He’d seen them stripped for parts. He’d watched higher caste bots drain their fuel and _drink_ it.

Mechs like Three-of-Twelve had held him in that kind of contempt. He’d never thought about how Rung’s altmode might have affected his pre-war treatment, but he suddenly had the awful sense that they had more in common than he’d first thought.

When he cautiously started the video feed again, Three-of-Twelve pinned Rung to the floor. “You stole fuel from me. I _will_ take it back.”

The proboscis extended again, worming into an open line where armor had been ripped away.

Rung offlined his optics, sagging with resignation, and the clip faded to black. Rewind almost couldn’t stand to let the next one play, but he _needed_ an explanation. He needed to know what fear left Rung still and unmoving even when being torn apart. What could be _worse_? What were they holding over him?

He let the clip open to Rung kneeling at a mech’s pedes in a dimly lit room. A hand slowly stroked his helm--confident and possessive. As if he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Rung belonged to him.

“Let us see that pretty spark, little one,” the mech said.

Rung’s chest panels folded back immediately, and the light from his spark cast his blank face in sharp relief. Rewind had seen dead mechs with more expression.

The mech petting Rung’s helm tutted. “So many unnecessary parts blocking our view. Clear them out of the way.”

Rung reached calm hands up and began stripping away the armor surrounding his spark. Energon dribbled down between snapped transformation seams as he tore through himself.

The mech petting his helm smiled. “Aren’t you so glad we gave you that coding, little one?”

“Yes, Master.” Rung’s voice was blank--unpained despite being wrist-deep in his own organs.

“You finally have a purpose,” the mech said. “Almost like a _real_ mech. Aren’t you fortunate?”

“Yes, Master.”

Rewind paused and stared at the image of Rung with one of his own organs in hand. Whirl’s words in the bar came back to him:

“ _If he consented--”_

“ _He_ didn’t _. I don’t fraggin’ care what it sounds like, what it_ looks _like, he_ didn’t _!”_

Rewind felt sick down to his spark. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to walk in on a crowd of his friends watching a pornvid of Domey while knowing Domey had been coerced. Watching them defend the vid. Insist he wanted--

[[Domey?]] Rewind commed. [[Domey, I fragged up, I really fragged up.]]

Panic flashed across their bond. [[What’s wrong? Where are you? What’s going on? _Are you okay?_ ]]

[[I shared vids of Rung I found in this--this multimedia packet. Pornvids.]] He hugged himself. [[Domey, I fragged up. There were interviews after where he talked about how fun it was, but--but--]]

He couldn’t say it. His friend--someone he’d gone adventuring with on Hedonia, someone who had never been anything but warm and kind to him--had been raped and _he’d watched the vids_. He’d _shared_ the vids.

[[Primus. I’m on my way. Swerve’s? Habsuite? Tell me Whirl hasn’t found out.]]

Rewind couldn’t answer that without twisting in shame. The panic on Chromedome’s side of the bond was nearly overwhelming.

[[please god no are you okay]] The glyphs were hurried, slurred. [[rewind answer me are you okay if whirl knows if whirl has you]]

[[I’m fine,]] Rewind sent back immediately. [[Habsuite. I’m in the habsuite.]]

Chromedome sent back a single glyph tagged with five different types of relief: he was on his way.

Rewind turned his attention back to the paused video. Rung still held a glistening organ in one hand, his face almost bored. His optics looked _dead_.

He hit skip to jump to the next clip--anything to get the horrible image off his HUD--and saw the kind of extravagant party Senators had held all the time back in the so-called Golden Age. He vented with relief until he saw Rung’s face in the crowd.

The clip was dull, pointless--Rung was on the arm of some mech, smiling and chatting as if nothing in the world had ever happened to him. The same careless smile he’d worn for the interview.

And the mech parading him around was the same one who’d ordered him to rip himself apart.

When Chromedome burst through the door, the clip had faded out. He dumped the next clip into a datapad, wanting to purge all of it from his memory. Primus, he _could_ \--and it was a mark of how horrified he was that he genuinely considered asking Domey to wipe the last joor from his memory.

“Rewind, are you okay?” Chromedome’s voice was ragged, sick. “Are you okay?”

Rewind onlined his vocalizer, but it just clicked pitifully. He curled up, visor pressed against his knees, trying not to purge. An emotion beyond relief flooded him as his cojunx scooped him up and held him close.

“Rewind, you didn’t know about the slave-coding.” Domey stroked his back. “You couldn’t have known. It was top secret.” His voice cracked. “Pit. I should’ve told you.”

“You knew?” His voice sounded so weak. Every word was streaked with static.

“They had me working on a solution when he imprinted on Whirl, but there was nothing I could--”

“Imprinted on _Whirl_?” Rewind shook with horror and disgust, unable to wrap his processor around the idea.

“That’s why Whirl tried to kill himself,” Chromedome said. “Only way to escape the coding is if your master dies, and--well, Whirl was dead for a few kliks.”

The whole story came pouring out. Domey had needed to at least try to see if mnemosurgery could fix this--couldn’t let Rung suffer. But he’d promised Rewind he wouldn’t inject, and high command had told him to keep his trap shut, and he hadn’t worked out how to tell Rewind until Whirl had already tried to offline himself--and, at that point, he’d thought there was no reason for Rewind to have nightmares about it, too.

Leaving Rewind oblivious to the fact that what he’d taken for porn was actually calculated sexual assault meant to defame Rung’s character. A kind of intimate public humiliation that he’d then forwarded to half the ship in his excitement.

All over the ship, mechs were watching videos of Rung getting raped. Some were probably self-servicing to the footage without understanding what they were watching.

And then Rewind had to explain how he’d found out the truth, and Chromedome rubbed his back as he sobbed his way through the story.

When he’d calmed enough that he was no longer on the verge of purging, Rewind looked down at the datapad in his hands. “There was one more clip in the folder,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Don’t punish yourself--”

“I have to know.” And wasn’t that his greatest character flaw? He just had to know. Just had to keep digging. “I have to.”

Domey tensed. “We’ll watch it together, then.”

Rewind felt too wrung out and exhausted to protest. In any case, he would probably purge if he had to watch another clip like that alone.

On the datapad, static gave way to the sight of Rung kneeling on the floor. Every line of his frame hung heavy with defeat.

“We’ve decided to grant you one opportunity to plead your case,” a voice said.

Rung’s frame stiffened, but his optics remained trained on the ground. He didn’t speak.

“Tell us what you want, little one,” another voice said. “What could you possibly want that you haven’t been provided?”

Rung’s vocalizer clicked and whined, but no real words made it out.

“Permission to speak freely for ten kliks,” a third mech said. “But every word must be the truth.”

Rung started shaking. “Please.” His voice was so soft that Rewind had to strain to hear it through the tinny speakers. “Please kill me.”

“And why would we do that?”

“I can’t--I can’t live like this anymore.” Rung’s voice cracked, and he looked up--at the mechs, at the camera, straight at Rewind. “Please let me die. _Please_.”

“And what could you give us in return?”

Rung’s lower lip trembled. “Nothing you don’t already have, Master.”

“We’ve granted you a purpose, little one. It’s an honor.”

“I know, Master.” Rung choked, a deep shudder wracking his frame. “I--I know, Master, but please-- _please_ , I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.”

“Surely you have some reason to live?”

“No,” Rung’s optics sparked as cleaning fluid pooled behind his glasses. “No. I have no reason at all to live.”

“But don’t you enjoy your _rewards_?”

Rewind and Chromedome exchanged a look--no, neither of them knew what form these rewards could take. Neither of them _wanted_ to know.

“No, Master.” Rung twisted his hands in his lap, looking away at the floor again.

“That’s odd.” The voice had a mocking tone to it that set Rewind’s plating on edge. “I _distinctly_ remember you overloading from your last, oh, eight rewards. And you don’t enjoy them?”

“No.” Rung’s voice was hoarse; his entire body shook. “No, please, Master, please--if you wish to reward me, please, I ask only for death. Please-- _please_ no more.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” another voice cut in. “Do you remember when you had your own clinic?”

“Yes, Master.”

“What a waste of time. Your purpose, _droid_ , is to serve.”

Rewind flinched back from the slur--a variant of the one another so-called ‘master’ had used earlier. A drone built from scrap parts, worth less than nothing because its owners needed to fuel it.

“And I’ve served you,” Rung pleaded, lowering himself into a deep, supplicating bow. “I’ve served you for two hundred fifty vorns. More--more service than can be expected of a third-rate drone. It’s time I--time I was decommissioned.”

“You would have us find someone to take your place?”

Rung’s helm snapped up, optics wide with horror. “No, Master, I--no, I wouldn’t--no mech deserves--”

“It is fortunate, then, that you are no mech.” The voice sounded calm, at ease--almost amused. “What are you, little one?”

Rung’s voice was nearly inaudible. “A service droid.”

“You used to write papers and books,” another voice jeered. “Surely you can plead your case more eloquently. I’m hardly convinced that you want us to deactivate you.”

“Likely because drones _can’t_ want any such thing.” Yet _another_ voice. How many mechs had been complicit in these assaults? “All you want is to serve, isn’t that right, little one?”

“I _want_ to die!” Rung shouted, fingers buried in his chestplate so fiercely that Rewind could see dents forming. His optics sparked again. “I know that I have nothing to offer you in exchange, but I beg of you--I _implore_ you--please grant me death. Please.”

“And you expect us to be swayed by _that_?” The unseen mech snorted. “You’ll need to do better if you want to be decommissioned.”

“You won’t decommission me no matter what I say.” Rung’s face crumpled into heavy sobs as he removed his glasses to clear the fluid from his optics. “You’ll never allow me the dignity of death.”

“Oh, but we _will_.” Rung’s head snapped up, and the mech laughed. “ _If_.”

“If--? If--if what, Master?”

“If you can persuade us.”

A dark and horrible hope flickered in Rung’s naked optics. “You would be able to take me apart completely.” He visibly swallowed a sob. “You could strip me down for parts for my betters to use as they see fit. You would no longer need to fuel me--you could even,” he scrambled, eyes flicking from one unseen face to the next, “you could even--even experiment. The resilience of the spark. How long a mech can survive unfueled.” Whatever he saw in their faces panicked him. “In a vacuum! At absolute zero! You could garner--garner some use out of this worthless frame, if only for science’s sake. For the sake of medical care for my betters, now and future.”

“Your time to plead your case is running out.”

Rung’s armor rattled, and he began inching forward on hands and knees as if against a strong gale. “Please, Master, please consider your own needs--every drop of fuel I take in is stolen from your own table. Please decommission me and spare yourself the expense, the waste.”

The camera tipped down as Rung approached; he came to a stop at their pedes and wailed, dropping to press his forehelm to the ground.

“I can offer you nothing, but I offer you nothing even as I remain online.” Rung’s entire body shook with the force of his sobs; his voice was scratchy with static and terror. “Please decommission me. I don’t deserve to remain online. _Please_.”

“No, you don’t deserve to remain online.”

Rung looked up at once, joy and wonder and hope beyond anything Rewind had ever seen flooding his expression.

“Fortunately for you, my little drone, your masters are merciful. Although you deserve to be decommissioned, we will continue to nourish and care for you as we have these past vorns.”

The despair in Rung’s optics--the crushed hope and utter bereft agony of loss--made Rewind twist away, hiding his face against Domey’s chest as the mechs laughed.

Silence filled the room as the clip ended. Rewind’s visor and mask were wet with tears.

“I fragged up.” His voice cracked as he thought about the one-on-one interview he’d done with Rung--how excited Rung had been to spend as much time as he wanted talking about his ships.

It hurt to think of it after seeing just how limited Rung’s freedom of speech had been.

“You didn’t know.” Chromedome’s voice was hoarse, too, but the hand against Rewind’s back was soothing. “You didn’t get those vids because he was on them. You can delete them, and no one has to see them ever again.”

Rewind froze. “The vids.” His spark felt as if it’d been dunked in ice water. “The vids--they were on that disc. The one that got confiscated. These were just my backups.”

Chromedome met his gaze with sudden understanding. “Frag.”


	19. red alert interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red Alert is dutiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter include graphically described gore and sexual violence, emetophobia warning as well.

Rewind marked his messages with higher and higher priority until he finally caved and sent Swerve as a direct messenger.

“He says you shouldn’t watch those vids you confiscated.” Swerve shrugged. “He paid off his and Chromedome’s tabs in one go and left a tip if I promised to pass on the message when I came back for the night.”

Red Alert frowned. “That’s suspicious.”

“Well, I didn’t say I’d convince you to _listen_ to him.” Swerve waved a hand at him and made a beeline for his recharge slab. “I don’t wanna see that kinda thing, though, so don’t watch while I’m here, okay?”

Their habsuite wasn’t secure enough for viewing sensitive documents, in any case; he left for his security office before Swerve had even laid down. He’d watched about twenty seconds of footage when the discs had been confiscated--just enough to confirm that they were, in fact, snuff videos. Rewind had been duly punished, and he’d filed them away without another look.

Rewind’s fear was too suspicious to ignore, however. He dusted off the discs and pulled out a holovid viewer to watch them on. Hopefully he would be able to skim through the disc and identify any security threats without giving it a detailed examination.

He booted up the disc and flicked through frames at high speed, looking for visually coded messages, weaponry he might have seen around the ship, familiar faces--

A pale face with tears trapped behind round spectacles made his spark stutter in his chest. His finger released the fast forward button as he hurled the video player away and scrambled backwards.

The face remained still and full of agony. Rung. This--this was a video of _Rung_.

His servos shook, and he couldn’t decide whether rage or disgust or distress caused the tremors. He took a deep vent to steady himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to approach the holovid. It was a three dimensional view of Rung, viewed from above as he curled on some dark surface and sobbed.

He had to watch it. Had to see what security risk Rewind had brought aboard.

 _He couldn’t look at Rung’s face_.

He’d seen those optics in the bar. He’d seen Rung go slack and despairing like that in his own arms. He could guess what had been done to him--he didn’t need to see it.

But his _duty_ as Chief Security Officer demanded he skim it. Rung had helped him into the field, supported him as he rose through the ranks. This leak could put _Rung_ at risk. That was unacceptable.

“My ears are the best in the business,” he said. “It’s gotta be good enough to just--listen.”

He shut off the video feed and used a secure line to get the audio directed into his processor--where eavesdroppers wouldn’t be able to listen.

“ _I’m sorry, Master.” Rung howled with pain. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”_

“ _Be silent, little one. And stay_ still _for once.”_

The skreel of metal on metal followed, but Rung made no further sound. Not even as metal crunched and the chittering of broken glass being swept away flooded his audials. Surely--surely if he didn’t even scream, it couldn’t be as bad as it sounded. They were having him clean up a mess, not splitting open his plating. Not shattering that beautiful glass pane in his chest. Not crushing his glasses. Not hurting him. He’d--he’d said sorry for whatever slight they’d invented.

He cautiously switched on the video feed and scrambled for the _off_ button. Unable to manage the motor control to hit a single button, however, the image froze instead. Rung lay on his back, unbound and yet unmoving as servos and claws cracked open his optics. Wires poked up out of the cracked glass, sparking against the cleaning fluid pooled in the ragged edges.

Red twisted sideways and purged into a wastebin. He went with analog controls whenever possible, but he sent the command ping over short-range comms to shut off the image. He started the video back up again and covered his mouth when the monsters started having idle conversation over the brutal cracking and crunching.

“ _I like to hear it bleating, personally. Are you sure you want it to be silent?”_

“ _It’s so satisfying to listen to those sad little clicks, though. Drones are so pathetic.”_

Red Alert could identify the clicking--could recognize the sound of a forcibly deactivated voxcoder. Once or twice, a soft, staticky crackle escaped, but it was almost unnoticeable. Certainly the monsters ignored it.

The familiar sound of a clip ending had Red sighing with relief, reaching up to pause it until he heard a whimper--a whimper he’d heard in person, a whimper he wasn’t about to forget.

Not more scenes. Not more of this.

“ _Rehearse your lines for us, little one.”_

Red Alert listened as Rung spoke. Without the ominous prelude, it would have sounded as if he was perfectly content. Turning on the video feed, Red confirmed that Rung was fully intact--optics and all--but he was giving a perfectly inflected speech about wanting everyone to see some video while someone pawed at his _spark_. The spark itself drew Red’s optics immediately, and his own spark leapt towards it.

He felt so ashamed of himself that he could’ve purged again. On an intellectual level, he knew that almost any bot would be hard-pressed to look away from a spark on display, but this--his own spark _wanting_ Rung when he was clearly being assaulted--he had never hated himself so much in all his functioning.

Steeling himself, he looked back up. Rung was continuing with his speech, gestures and all, as the mech holding him started carving lines into his spark chamber. Red looked up the glyph bleeding against Rung’s spark and had to stop the footage. He could turn the holoscreen so that he couldn’t see the word-- _drone marked for part cannibalization despite third-rate materials; extract key organs and leave the rest for scrap_ \--but he couldn’t ignore the bright blue glow of Rung’s spark until he cut the video feed entirely.

He couldn’t listen to Rung’s calm voice and not think of all those sessions he’d spent soothing Red. All the times that gentle voice had calmed him. Rung had been unfailingly patient and--and, in retrospect, _trusting_. Red had called him to a secluded location for a consultation without giving a name--even a fake name. He still had those recordings he’d made; they were all that got him back into recharge some nights.

Comparing the time stamps, Rung had experienced this--this awful violation only a few vorns before Red had learned about him. And Rung had still willingly walked into what could very easily have been a trap. Had devoted hundreds of years to taking care of Red’s fears.

Who could violate a mech’s spark so _casually_?

He owed it to Rung to bear witness to what had been done to him. To make sure that it would never happen again.

Venting hard, he jumped back to the start of Rung’s section and braced himself. This time, however, he wasn’t confronted with the sight of Rung lying still and silent as dispassionate mechs ripped out his optics. Instead, Rung was staring off into the middle distance as two mechs rutted against his spark.

“ _Stay online,” a third mech ordered. “Listen to me.”_

_Rung’s voice was detached but steady. “Yes, Master.”_

“ _I think you have too much armor in their way, wouldn’t you agree?”_

“ _Yes, Master.”_

“ _And they’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to be taken apart.”_

Rung’s optics went dull. _“I understand, Master.”_

“ _Do keep it down, though, little one. Your betters have things to discuss.”_

Without hesitation, Rung reached down and--and began to rip away his own plating. He carefully maneuvered around the mechs grinding their sparks against his, delicately avoiding so much as scratching their finish. When his own kibble and organs blocked their access, he tore them free, setting them in a glistening pile on the floor beside him.

Red was so horrified that he didn’t realize it was the wrong clip until the mechs tore at Rung’s frame in overload. He paused, horrified but hoping that this meant he was having an unreality episode--that none of this was actually happening, had actually happened.

When he dug up playback information on the disc, though, the fuel in his tanks curdled. The disc was set to randomize four scenes from a databank of _over two hundred_ , always ending with the same fifth clip.

Joors and joors of footage. Maybe _orns_ of footage, depending on clip length.

Red put his helm in his hands. Could he really sit through that much footage--pick through scene after scene of Rung being torn to pieces, even tearing _himself_ to pieces--could he bear even one more scene?

He thought of Rung’s defeated expression when he’d been grabbed by everyone at the bar. He hadn’t seen a mech make a second appearance in any of the clips; he had probably fully expected to _serve_ the entire Lost Light crew in exactly the manner shown.

He had looked up at Red and expected to be taken like this. To be violated and hurt.

Rung had listened to every demon Red Alert had invented, every fictitious monster. He’d seen the real monsters--he’d known what mechs were capable of. He’d known and he’d brought himself into the dangerous unknown of Red’s presence and _listened_ for six hundred years or more, and Red couldn’t even stand to face one joor of what Rung had suffered.

Rung would probably say that was a mark of compassion, not cowardice. Not dereliction of duty.

But if even _one_ clip explicitly mentioned the slave-coding, Rung would be at risk. In his time as a security officer, he’d seen a handful of attempts to get slave-coding victims to re-imprint. The rumor ran that significant trauma would trigger it, getting the mech a free slave.

And trauma _had_ ignited the coding--had caused it to imprint on _Whirl_. And ignoring that possibility--that security breach--could leave Rung in its grips again.

He vented again and downloaded every clip to a separate, heavily encoded drive that no one would be able to crack without his assistance. He would destroy the disc as soon as he could find a way to leave the data completely unsalvageable. Until then, he had to watch as much footage as he could tolerate.

He _couldn’t_ let Rung get hurt. Not like that. Never again.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung and Whirl go on a planetside date.

In the orns since the holovids had been spread around the ship, play counts had continued climbing steadily.

_Someone is watching you get used by thirty mechs right now. Aren’t you proud? What a good cable splitter._

Oh yes--the ‘party’ video. That one was especially popular. Rung dismissed the alert, but another took its place immediately.

_Someone is rubbing off to the sight of thirty mechs siphoning charge into you. You’re finally serving your purpose--bringing pleasure to real mechs._

If it had just been a popup on his HUD with a number, it would have been humiliating enough. If the alert message had been the same each time, he could have gotten used to it. His Masters had seen fit to drag out his suffering, mocking him even from the Well. Each clip had a randomized message from a databank of at least twenty possibilities.

He dismissed the alert, bracing for another--but no, only two mechs were watching. At least for the moment.

“You okay, Rung?”

Rung forced a smile. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Whirl’s optic narrowed. “Uh huh. What was that you said?” He crossed his arms. “If we’re gonna get hitched someday, we gotta trust each other. You’re not okay, and I’m not having it.”

Another alert popped up on his HUD. _Someone is self-servicing to the sight of a patient bending you over your own desk. Perhaps they’ll ask if you make house calls._

Rung wanted to offline his optics, but the message would remain until he dismissed it. And another would follow. Since the Lost Light had found the holovids, he hadn’t gone a joor without being notified that someone--almost certainly someone he saw daily--was watching him be assaulted.

They didn’t know it was assault.

“We’re finally out on a date,” Rung said, trying to make his voice cheerier than he felt. His spark twisted with shame. Here he was, planet-side on a planet friendly toward inorganic beings, and he was wasting his time thinking about how many of his friends were self-servicing to his assault. “Can we discuss it when we get home?”

Whirl seemed dubious, but he nodded. “If you’re sure, I guess. What did you want to do?”

“There’s actually a museum full of miniatures on this planet.” He didn’t have to fake his excitement about this--he’d been ecstatic as soon as he saw it on the brochure. “Everything from model towns to alien spacecraft. I thought--if you didn’t mind--” He hesitated. “--I mean, of course, it probably doesn’t sound particularly interesting to you, but I--”

Whirl rested a claw on his shoulder, and affection washed over Rung through their bond. “That sounds like the perfect date, Rung.”

“Are you sure?” Rung wrung his hands. “If you had something in mind--”

_Someone is watching you demand the hardest fragging of your life. Do you still have the energon in your joints? It was so appealing._

The sort of message that had been a coded order to self-harm; his neck cables itched above his main fuel line. No--no, he wasn’t theirs to command. Hadn’t been for time out of mind.

“Nah, let’s go look at tiny stuff.” Whirl’s optic curved into a grin. “Lead the way, sweetspark!”

For some reason, the term of endearment made it easier to smile back. “You just want to get a good look at my aft as I go.”

Whirl shrugged. “Can ya blame me?”

Rung snorted, but he made a point of swinging his hips in a way he’d learned under the Functionists--they would _hate_ to see him using these skills on a victim of empurata. They would be _furious_.

It was a kind of victory when Whirl’s engine gave a startled rev. The sound of cooling fans getting manually shut off was likewise satisfying.

***

_Someone is rubbing off to a video of you begging for mercy. Do you think they’d be as merciful as we are?_

“ _Were_ ,” Rung hissed, forgetting himself for a moment. “And you _weren’t_ merciful.”

The lapse was enough to drag Whirl’s attention away from the miniature clockwork trains circling the model town. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” He tried to refocus on the precious detail work in the town--the painstaking care taken in animating the organics inhabiting it, for example--but another alert on his HUD set his plating on edge.

Whirl just narrowed his optic and waited. Usually Rung could out-wait him, but the train circled the town eight times, and Whirl’s attention didn’t waver. Something inside Rung’s spark gave way.

“I--I’m still getting alerts.”

“Alerts?” Whirl repeated, confusion flickering in his field until realization hit--then fury took its place. “Like the ones I cleared for you?”

Rung glanced around the empty exhibit before nodding.

“So there are still mechs watching that scrap?” Whirl’s claws clicked dangerously. “How many?”

“It--it really doesn’t matter. I’m overreacting.” Rung looked around for an escape. “I think there’s a clock exhibit a few floors up--”

“How many?” Rung flinched at the sharpness of Whirl’s tone, and he immediately backpedaled. “I just--I told you I’d take care of it. That I already took care of it.” He rubbed at the back of his helm. “I thought I did, y’know?”

“I’m fine,” Rung lied, and this time Whirl was the one who flinched. Of course--that had been the first order the slave-coding had latched onto. “It’s fine, really. They’re just--just annoying.”

“Want me to disable them?”

It was hard not to laugh--and yet laughter felt impossible. “They can’t be disabled.” His throat tightened, and a bitter taste surged up the back of his glossa. “I tried. I took the problem to medics--it’s beyond a firewall only _they_ had access to.”

Whirl hesitated. “Uh.” When Rung looked up, he looked more sheepish than ever. “When we, uh.” He gestured--not as lewdly as he could have. “I, uh. I had access.”

Rung froze. “What?”

“You sure you wanna talk about this here? We could go back to the ship--”

“Four hundred eighty-five alerts total since you cleared them for me,” Rung cut in. “The party vid is especially popular.” He’d even seen an alert for that one pop up the moment he stepped out of Brainstorm’s lab, so he suspected he knew at least one viewer. If he admitted _that_ , though, Whirl would be out for blood. “I--I would rather not see the crew at the moment.”

Whirl’s body language softened. “I should be keeping you safe.”

Rung reached out to lay a hand on Whirl’s arm. “You have done an admirable job of that.”

“I could at least kill the alerts,” Whirl said. “If you wanna hook up.”

Rung’s spark twisted, and he looked at the floor. He’d been swinging his hips at Whirl and enjoying the rattle of his cooling fans for joors. He should have expected this. “If you would like to interface, I would of course be happy to take care of--”

“Nooo no no,” Whirl said, throwing his claws up in a clear _hold it_ gesture. “No, that’s--that’s pretty much the exact opposite of what I’m going for, here.”

Rung looked up again, brow furrowed in confusion, and Whirl covered his optic with one claw.

“No funny business, cross my spark,” Whirl said. “I just wanna hide the alerts so you can actually enjoy these miniatures you were so excited to see.”

***

The disbelief in Rung’s field made Whirl queasy. “On second thought, this doesn’t seem like such a good idea.” He clicked his claws anxiously. “Frag, Rung, I don’t know what to do to _help_.”

Rung’s grip on his arm tightened. “You read the alerts before clearing them?”

“Yeah.” He’d had to--they had to be deleted individually. Message after message about how Rung was only good as...a...

As a fragtoy. And oh, then he’d suggested ‘facing. Great going, Whirl. Perfect plan!

He reset his voxcoder. “They’re wrong, okay?” He sent the glyph for _wrong_ over text-based comms, too, for good measure--marking up the glyph with emphasis and disgust to illustrate exactly how astonishingly wrong they’d been. “The alerts are just--they’re lies.”

Rung stared off into the middle distance, suddenly light-years--or just plain old years--away from Whirl. “I used to look forward to them,” he admitted. “The alerts.”

“What?”

“You remember how--how I responded to praise?” When Whirl nodded, Rung swallowed hard. “Some of the messages praise me. There were weeks--months--sometimes entire _years_ \--where none of my--” He broke off. “Where none of them praised me. And, well, I was engineered so that would make me suffer.”

Remembering how quickly Rung had tensed and panicked about being in Whirl’s good graces while under the coding’s grip, Whirl couldn’t even imagine how much it would ache when praise came every few years rather than every few minutes.

“Not all of them did, though.”

“No. Some were coded messages; orders to self-harm.” Rung touched his neck unconsciously, and Whirl felt sick. “Others were just insults. But there was always the _hope_. If I performed well enough, perhaps I’d get a few views that triggered positive feedback.”

It was a mark of how terrible Rung’s time with the Functionists had been that Whirl could actually see how being told he was ‘bringing pleasure to real mechs’ could actually be the highlight of his day. He didn’t want to think about the rush of disappointment that failing to find praise would’ve provoked.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “You’re the best mech on the Lost Light. The best in the galaxy. Probably the best in the whole universe, for that matter.” He reached out to brush one claw against Rung’s cheek. “You’re a fraggin’ adorable nerd who loves toy ships and actually knows what the scrap I’m talking about when I say I used to have a full C-line of wrenches and half the M-line.” He tried to push all his affection and adoration across their bond. “You’ve got a voice that’s so soothing it oughtta be illegal, and your glasses and antennae and--and your _everything_ \--is too damn cute to handle.”

“Treasure--”

“And you actually call me nice things and _mean_ it,” he added. “And you’re fraggin’ brilliant--you always got the murder motives right when we read those novels, remember? You’d be the best damn detective anybody ever saw. You--you’re good at _everything_. And you’re really important, okay?” He tried to keep his claw steady; he felt frantic with the need to make sure Rung knew he _mattered_. “Not _just_ to me, but definitely for sure you’re important to me, too. Okay?”

Rung’s optics slowly came back to focus on Whirl as he returned to the present day. “You--you really do just want to hide the alerts, don’t you?”

“Because they’re _lies_.” He sent the glyph, layered with the implication that they weren’t _just_ lies, they were libel! They were slander! They were--they were _perjury_ , in the court of Rung’s own mind. Disgusting and abhorrent defamation! Maybe Rung would listen to fancy words and glyphs. The plain ones weren’t working, after all. “They’re--they’re fragging _lies_.”

Okay, so maybe he didn’t know how to pronounce all those glyphs. But that’s what text-based comms were for, right?

Rung’s EM field warmed with honest affection. “All right. I trust you.”

Whirl glanced around the room. Public ‘facing--even if it wasn’t _sexy_ ‘facing--probably wouldn’t be good with Rung feeling like he was. “You name the time and place, and I’ll take care of you.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl accidentally discovers something new about Rung's slavecoding.

Rung settled against one of Whirl’s seats, strapping himself in. They’d snuck up onto the roof of the building, where they were unlikely to be seen, and Rung had gratefully accepted Whirl’s offer of interfacing with Whirl in his alt-mode. He felt secure buckled into the plush seat, the doors shut. Nobody could get him here.

_Someone is listening to you begging us to stop, but they know you love everything we do to you._

Yes, of course--the ‘rape fantasy’ video. He’d been ordered to makes his ‘no’s as unconvincing as possible. To be honest with his words and lie with his tone.

Rung vented deeply and opened the hatch to his interface array. “Would you rather the connection be reciprocal?”

“This is about you, okay? If you want my cable, it’s yours.”

The words seemed to surround him--somehow he found it comforting. When plugged into a port, the cable granted the one being plugged into with access to the cable mech’s hard drives, to vast swathes of the brain module--anything not protected by a firewall. The port mech had control. They determined how much charge to pass down the line, what data to share--if any.

With a completed circuit--a reciprocal connection--there could be give and take. It would be less like a force-download.

He offlined his optics. This was a medical interaction, not a sexual one. A medic would only have access to his cable. “Just my cable, then.”

Whirl teeked of concern, but his own interface hatch opened on his dashboard just in front Rung. “Whenever you’re ready.”

_Someone is watching you get used by thirty mechs right now. Aren’t you proud? What a good cable splitter._

Why did so many crew members enjoy that video? He hadn’t even _pretended_ that his overloads were anything but mechanical. He’d spent half the filming sobbing. Had they cut those takes? Or was that part of the appeal?

“Rung? You okay?” Whirl’s voice was uncertain, and nervousness buzzed in the EM field around him. “We don’t hafta do this if you aren’t ready.”

Rung steeled himself and unspooled his cable. “No. I trust you.” And he _did_. He just wanted to spare Whirl the messages. They were meant for Rung. He should have gotten _used_ to them by now.

The thought occurred to him that his self-talk was completely at odds with everything he would have recommended for his patients. Another part of him whispered that his patients were _real_ mechs. There could be no comparing the two.

He stopped short of plugging in. “May I?”

“Go for it.”

The pins slid into place, and the connection sent a shudder through him as it stabilized. He sank back against the seat, grateful for the belt holding him steady and upright.

Whirl pinged an access request, and Rung braced himself before accepting.

With a processor not fogged with arousal, he felt himself tensing up as Whirl entered his systems. But Whirl was gentle, professional; he didn’t reach for any irrelevant data. When he pinged to request access to the subsection of his hard drive that had been reformatted and repurposed to exclusively serve his Masters, the firewall let him pass before Rung could even consider a yes.

But Whirl waited.

Another alert: _Someone is self-servicing to the sound of you sobbing. You bled so beautifully for us._

Praise and punishment all in one. His fuel lines itched automatically.

After a breathless moment, Whirl pinged again--[[ _reassurance/any time/later is okay_ ]]

“You have access.” Rung’s voice shook.

“Yeah, but not _permission_.”

Rung accepted his request, and Whirl eased into the part of him that not even he himself could reach. Places only his Masters had ever touched him. He filled the space with approval and reassurance and affection and support and--

The charge built up so suddenly that he didn’t even have time to mute his vocalizer. Only the firm, steady bands anchoring him to the seat kept him from arching up, from exposing his spark. As it was, he keened, pressing his cheek into the seatbelt as overload struck.

“Primus in the Pit--Rung, I didn’t mean to do that, I don’t know what happened, are you okay, should I--?”

Rung panted, his cooling fans rattling at full blast as he tried to ride out the surge of pleasure. “I--I think it’s a byproduct of--” He whimpered as Whirl withdrew, encouraging him to stay. “That--that seems to give you direct access to--” Speech gave way to static as the caring, gentle presence returned. His entire frame ached with the sudden influx of charge and visceral _need_. “Please--please continue.”

The alert that flashed on his HUD felt like a slap in the face. _Someone is rubbing off to--_

To what, he never found out; Whirl disabled the message before it even finished loading.

Across the hardline connection, Whirl sent a flurry of glyphs. Honor at the trust placed in him. Reassurance of Rung’s value underscored with firm and unwavering certainty. Rung’s designation with the lines tweaked to look like an I-love-you.

That part of his systems had never been so warm, so cared for--his entire frame ached to press into the intangible touch. Whirl sent him a wave of pride at his strength, and the charge peaked.

Rung jerked up against the seatbelt and nearly sobbed as overload rocked through him again. It took five tries to reboot his optics and ten to reboot his audials. When the static cleared, he realized that Whirl had withdrawn and was talking in an increasingly panicked voice.

“--Rung, Rung, please answer me, you’re freaking me out, what did I do--”

“Treasure,” Rung began, but he couldn’t even produce static; his voxcoder just clicked feebly. He reset it, and a faint crackle of static escaped.

“--oh god oh god what did I do, are you okay, are you okay--”

“Treasure,” he tried again, and this time enough was discernible that Whirl stopped talking. It took Rung a moment to realize that he wasn’t off-balance--Whirl was actually flying somewhere. “Where are we going?”

***

Primus in the Pit, Rung had finally answered him. “I was gonna take you to Ratchet,” he answered. After five minutes of Rung being completely unresponsive, he’d taken off. “What do you need? Where do you wanna go?”

Rung’s voxcoder just clicked and whirred softly.

“Do you want me to let you out? I can drop you off anywhere.” Not that it looked like he could stand, and who the hell was Rung supposed to be able to trust _now_? “I--I could take you back to your habsuite, call up Magsy to guard you--”

Whirl could feel Rung across the bond and cable alike, even if he’d stopped data transmissions--Rung was hurt and confused. And no wonder. He’d promised there wouldn’t be any funny business, and he’d somehow overloaded Rung _twice_ , and even though they weren’t the painful kind of overload, his so-called Masters had forced him to have the ‘fun’ kind as a reward before--Whirl had seen it in the merges, had sworn he’d keep Rung safe and then done exactly what they’d done--

Rung’s vocalizer onlined again, and Whirl fell silent. “You--you don’t want me anymore?”

“What?” It’d been staticky and pained and he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “I--of course I want you! But I fragged everything up, and I gotta take care of you, and obviously I’m not safe to be around, so--”

“Sweetspark.” Rung vented slowly. “I know you didn’t mean to. Please take me back to the museum.”

“Right, museum, of course.” Whirl tried to turn slowly enough that it wouldn’t make Rung any queasier. “What else can I do?”

“I could do with some close contact.” His voice shook. “I might need some assistance walking.”

He couldn’t cry in alt-mode, thankfully, but guilt ate at his undeserving spark. “Are you sure you want it to be me?”

“Yes.”

“But I--”

“You didn’t intend to bring me to overload.” Rung groaned. “Behind that firewall--I didn’t realize, but that’s a direct line into my sensory system and the positive/negative feedback area of my neural net. They had to put it there--that’s how they had access to critical systems and heavily integrated the coding into the rewards section of my brain module.”

Whirl tried to follow, really he did, but he was still fighting down panic. “Uh.”

“What I mean to say is that, behind that firewall, you were capable of activating every sensory node in my frame simultaneously.”

Whirl’s engine tried to stall out, but he kept it running with a carefully applied mental kick. “When you say all of ‘em--?”

“I mean _all_ of them,” Rung said. “My prior Masters only went behind that firewall with disgust, disdain--an intent to hurt. When you entered with a desire to help, to heal, to make me feel well again…” Rung trailed off. “Well, it obliged you. More than that, it automatically triggered the ‘reward’ center of my brain module because of your approval.”

Whirl landed gently and popped the door open for Rung. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’ve just had the most intense overload of my life, so forgive me if I’m a little disoriented.” Disoriented, yeah, definitely--he tried to hop out of Whirl’s cockpit without unhooking his cable from Whirl’s port, and then it took four tries to actually unplug. “My apologies.”

As if _Rung_ had anything to apologize for! Before Whirl could voice that thought, though, Rung stumbled--Whirl had to transform immediately to catch him. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Rung relaxed against his side, warmth and affection in his field. “It’s rather nice not to get those messages every other klik,” he said. “Thank you for your help, treasure.”

Whirl settled his arm carefully around Rung’s shoulders. He shouldn’t have been getting alerts because Whirl should have taken care of the problem at the _source_. He shouldn’t have had to let Whirl in when he was nervous. He shouldn’t have been forced to fraggin’ overload when he’d trusted Whirl to take care of him!

“I’m sorry, Rung. I don’t know how to make it up to you, but, Primus, I’m _so_ sorry.”

Rung vented the heaviest sigh Whirl had ever heard. “Maybe we should sit down for a moment and debrief.”

“Whatever you want.” If Rung had told him to jump off the building and stay in root-mode all the way to the ground, he would’ve taken a running start. He certainly didn’t deserve any better.

Rung directed him toward a patch of shade on the far side of the roof--probably since the overloads had left him almost overheated, _great going, Whirl_ \--and nudged him until he’d settled on the ground. “I’d like to sit on your lap, please.”

“Of course.” He steadied Rung as he eased his way onto his lap, running a soothing claw up and down his spinal strut. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Just need a moment.” Rung’s forehelm came to rest against Whirl’s cockpit, and exhaustion swamped Rung’s field. “And then I’d like to speak uninterrupted for a few kliks, all right? It may take some time for me to gather my thoughts.”

Whirl disabled his own vocalizer as a precaution before nodding. They rested there for a long, still moment, Rung pushing reassurance through his field and his end of their bond even though Whirl didn’t _deserve_ it, didn’t deserve anything more than a punch to the not-face--

“You waited,” Rung said. “You had access to those systems immediately--access I am literally unable to grant of my own volition--and you _waited_.”

He wanted to say that anybody who _didn’t_ wait in that situation was probably sick dross, but Rung wanted to talk without being interrupted. He left his vocalizer offline.

“You made no attempts to arouse me or bring me to overload,” Rung continued. “You just tried to reassure me, as always, that I have value.” He ran a servo over the side of Whirl’s helm. “It is _not_ your fault that the coding turned reassurance into arousal and love into overload.”

Whirl couldn’t face him. He looked off into the distance, watching organics wander the streets.

Rung’s hand came to a rest on Whirl’s claw. “You only proceeded when I told you to, and, when I became unresponsive, you immediately stopped transmitting data and sought out medical attention. Those were _good_ decisions, treasure.”

The whole idea had been a bad decision, but he didn’t say so; he kept waiting.

“I know that you feel you've wronged me. Whether or not you feel you deserve forgiveness, I forgive you.”

Whirl flinched, barely choking down his objections. No interruptions! He owed Rung at least that much.

When Whirl didn't butt in, Rung's field warmed with gratitude. “It's mine to give or withhold as I please, and I don't harbor any bad sentiments toward you for prompting an involuntary overload.” His voice softened. “In fact, knowing that you could see into that space and still care for me--that means a great deal to me. I'm grateful for your help and--” His voice broke off as affection choked and overwhelmed his field. “And I am more thankful than ever that the coding imprinted on _you_.”

Whirl's optic sparked, and Rung froze.

“Treasure, are you crying?”

Still wasn't his turn to talk; he managed a jerky nod without looking at Rung.

“I've said my piece. Please, sweetspark, tell me what's wrong.”

“I was _them_ in that first merge.” His voice creaked. “I _saw_ them hurt you, and it was me hurting you. It don't make any difference at all whether the overload was the 'good' kind--” He made a feeble attempt at mimicking Ratchet's air-quotes; his spark wasn't in it. "You didn't wanna overload then. You didn't wanna 'face at all. And you didn't wanna 'face today, either, and I--” Static ate the rest of his sentence; he reset his voxcoder and tried again. “I 'faced with you anyway, and I just wanted to help, but what if--what if I really am just like them?”

“Oh, dearspark.”

“Being nice comes so easy to everyone else.” He looked down at his claws. “And it hasn't come easy to me _ever_. And when I try to do the right thing, I always frag it up.” Primus, where was the manual override on optical cleaning solvent? “I just don't think I'm good enough for somebody like you.”

“Treasure, no.” Whirl let those gentle hands turn his helm to look Whirl in the optic. “Remember what Ratchet said? You're healing me.”

That...was true. But anybody who loved Rung could heal him, and who could meet Rung and _not_ love him?

“You shouldn't hafta reassure me,” he said. “You're having a lousy day, and you gotta be wiped out.” He reached up to flick solvent off his optic and clear his vision a little. “What do ya wanna do with the rest of your day?”

“Whirl.” Those optics gave him a look harder than diamond. “I love you, but you are _exasperating_ at times. Please take me at my word and take me out on our date.”

Whirl wanted to ask if he was sure, but his expression and field didn't really leave any room for doubt. “All right.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl gets his turn on the bottom. Rung is a bit of a show off.

Rung felt steadier as the joors passed, and his spark felt lighter every time he and Whirl got into a heated discussion about the details of the clockwork miniatures. By the time the sun had set and their planetside leave was up, he felt better than he had since the videos had first made the rounds on the Lost Light.

He might have pressed a little closer to Whirl than was strictly necessary when they returned to the ship, but given that virtually every passerby had likely watched a holovid of him sobbing through interface, he felt perfectly justified.

And anyway, Whirl’s EM field was warm and soothing and so full of love that he _ached_. It hardly seemed right that Whirl should fault himself for not being able to perfectly manage coding that baffled trained medics and mnemosurgeons. Rung could feel--spark-to-spark--that Whirl wanted, more than anything, to help.

Lying astride Whirl’s cockpit on their berth and pressing reassuring kisses against the glass, Rung was struck with an idea.

“Sweetspark,” he began. “Would you be interested in interfacing tonight?”

Whirl froze, his claw stilling on Rung’s hip. “After what I did?”

Rung’s spark squeezed at the skepticism in his voice. “Only if you’re interested, of course.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, it occurred to me that you haven’t had a turn submitting, despite your repeated statements of interest.” Rung hesitated. “I’m still not certain what I could offer you as a dominant, but I thought it might be a good time to discuss it.”

A rush of desire warmed Whirl’s armor and EM field before he tamped it down. “Rung, you don't have to--”

“You said earlier that the submissive should take the lead on drawing boundaries, but I want you to trust that I'll draw my own, too.” Rung reached up to stroke the side of Whirl's helm. “What is it about submission that appeals to you?”

That piercing yellow optic narrowed in on Rung, scrutinizing his expression. “I'm really fine just cuddling, Rung. You know that, right?”

He did; he felt Whirl's sincerity pulsing against his own spark. “Snuggling would be wonderful if either of us were uninterested,” Rung agreed, “but I find myself quite taken with you tonight and not much in the mood to submit.”

Whirl's optic cycled wide. “You're serious.”

Rung pressed another fervent kiss to Whirl's windshield to hide his grin. "So it seems prudent to discuss boundaries."

Whirl's vocalizer clicked twice, resetting wordlessly. “Uh.”

“I recall you saying that you aren't fond of debasement and prefer not to have your movement restricted by your rotors.” Rung raised his helm to begin mouthing at Whirl's throat, and both of their fans kicked in simultaneously. “Your only positive preference was for occasional pain play.”

He made a point of running his denta along Whirl's throat and was rewarded with a full-frame shudder.

“ _Yes_.” Whirl's voice had gone rough with static. “That--that sounds fragging amazing, honestly.”

Rung drew back far enough to remove and subspace his glasses, meeting Whirl's stare with a grin. “Tell me what you'd enjoy.”

Whirl vented hard. “I want you to leave marks.” His optic dimmed. “I want to be _yours_.”

Rung had never _wanted_ to belong to someone, but the raw desire in Whirl's field made him consider. Having Whirl completely at his command sounded--upsetting.

“I'm afraid that I'm not quite ready to play at owning anyone, treasure.” He pressed a reassuring kiss to Whirl's neck. “Perhaps another time?”

To his surprise, Whirl grinned. “Yeah, sure.”

“You're not...?” Rung stopped short of saying _disappointed_ , but Whirl could probably read his concern through their bond.

“This might sound weird, but it is _literally_ the best thing ever to hear you say no.” The smile in his optic flickered abruptly. “That probably came out wrong, didn't it?”

A sudden surge of affection nearly overwhelmed his spark. He tried to express it, but words failed him. “Well, I suppose that I'll have to be strict with you, then, won't I?”

If there were any other sounds he loved as much as the roar of Whirl's cooling fans, he couldn't think of them.

“Yes, _sir_.” He hesitated. “Can I call you 'sir'?”

Rung had never been called anything of the sort; his own cooling fans gave away how appealing he found the idea. He buried his face in Whirl's neck before replying. “If you like.” He tried to get his bearings despite the warm plating beneath his lips. “So you'd like me to mark you?”

Whirl's engine revved. “ _Yes_.”

“In what manner?” He couldn't resist kissing Whirl's throat. “In what locations? With what implements?”

Whirl pressed up into his kisses, groaning static. “That is _so hot_.”

Seeing an opportunity, Rung bit down--not hard enough to hurt. Somewhat of a friendly warning. “Sweetspark, I asked you a question.”

“ _Primus_ , yeah, more of that.” The need in Whirl's voice was unbelievably attractive. “Uh, right, questions.” His engine gave a low whining sound. “You're distracting me!”

Rung mouthed the spot he'd just bit, soothing it. “Would you rather I stop?”

“Oh, anything but that!” Whirl's grin glowed in his voice.

“Then _tell_ me what you _want_.”

Whirl vented hot air over Rung's entire frame. “Okay, I want bite marks anywhere and everywhere. I'd love a scar somewhere noticeable saying 'property of Rung' but I get that you're not into that, so--so bite marks? You can drink, too, that was hotter than the Pit, and I've got plenty of fuel--”

“Other than bite marks, what would you like?” Rung remained gentle as he ran his glossa along Whirl's throat. The desperate whine that resulted made charge rush through Rung's frame, and he suddenly understood why Whirl so enjoyed teasing him. “Would you like me to take care of you?”

Indecision rippled in Whirl's field. “You don't have to--”

Rung gave him another warning bite, and his helm fell back against the berth.

“I _like_ taking care of you,” Whirl insisted, and Rung decided to rephrase.

“Would you like me to make the decisions? Would you like me to direct you?”

“Yes, _yes_.” Whirl's engine roared. “You already know all my boundaries, and I never shut up, so I'll tell you if there's something I don't like, so _please_ \--”

***

Before he could figure out exactly what to beg for, Rung buried his denta into Whirl's throat. Whirl went slack against the berth, his arms relaxing near Rung's hips. He had wanted to ask Rung to tell him what to do--had wanted to know what Rung hoped to get out of all this--but all thought fled his processor.

He didn't even have to mute himself and filter the few words that he let through. Rung had set boundaries--Rung had told him _no_ \--he could _trust_ Rung.

How fragging long had it been since Whirl had been able to _trust_ a berth partner?

Rung's mouth inched up Whirl's throat before the denta dug in again, leaving a burning trail along Whirl's main fuel line. It felt incredible. He had to offline his optic and dial back the volume on his audials to keep from getting overwhelmed by sensory input. The only thing in his world was Rung--Rung's heated frame against his cockpit, Rung's unrelenting denta in his throat, Rung's charged field nearly indistinguishable from his own.

Whirl was sure words were coming out of his voxcoder, but he couldn't have parsed them for anything. He was in freefall. He was flying. Only Rung’s bite tethered him to the real world, and, _Primus_ , it felt unbelievable.

Rung’s servos were small and delicate and precise and worked over his transformation seams as flawlessly as they built ships. His entire frame tingled with charged need, sensitized past the point of pain and looping back around into pleasure. The lightest touches were torture, and the firmest ones were agony, and he wanted _more_.

When Rung asked _may I_ , he always answered _yes_. _Yes_ , more contact. _Yes_ , more pain. _Yes_ , more marks. _Yes_ , more _everything_.

It wasn’t until he felt hot air venting against his spark that he realized he’d neglected his manual override--that Rung’s lips were against his very _self_ \--

“You’re gonna scorch your lips,” Whirl warned him, fighting back overload. “If I--and if you keep that up I’m _gonna_ \--if I overload, it’s gonna _sting_.”

Okay, so maybe ninety percent of that came out as static, but he _tried_ , and-- _Primus frag him into the goddamn Pit_ , _were those denta against his_ \--

He buried his claws into the berth to keep from shoving himself spark-first into Rung as overload hit him. Rung kept mouthing at his spark despite the arcing charge singing his lips, dragging out the overload for an eternity.

When he came down from the high, though, charge still reverberated in his frame. Rung rose to lick the wounds on his neck with a glossa still burning with his spark’s own heat. Though he’d never believed much in higher powers, _Primus_ was about the only reasonable explanation for euphoria that intense.

***

The fuel in Rung's mouth tasted sweeter than any high-grade and left him feeling far more intoxicated. He'd left half a dozen or more gashes in Whirl's throat, and a distant part of him felt as if he should be horrified with himself. Fortunately, Whirl's static-laden voice was several times louder and more convincing.

“Primus Himself couldn't frag half as well as you, holy fragging _frag_.” Static devoured the praise as Rung began lapping at the cuts he'd made. “Never had a frag a tenth as good, a hundredth, a thousandth.”

Rung tried not to laugh. “You're exaggerating.”

But Whirl continued as if he hadn't heard. “I mean, I thought Springer was pretty good because he was at least willing to look at my ugly mug while we fragged but he never wanted his lips anywhere near me, and _Primus_ that feels good--”

Rung kissed the tender spot again, and this time Whirl actually whimpered.

“You're amazing, Rung, fragging amazing and amazing at fragging and way too damn good for me--” He broke off with a gasp that trailed into a needy whine as Rung hesitated. “ _Please_ do that again oh my god.”

Rung obliged him, enjoying the delighted clicks and beeps that broke up Whirl's constant chatter. He hadn't asked after Whirl's prior experiences with interfacing, hadn't even considered that other mechs might not want to frag Whirl through every wall in sight. In bits and pieces, though, a story seemed to come together in Whirl's pleas.

He'd learned to dispel charge with a medical override because his partners lost interest after their own overloads, and of course Whirl hadn't been interested in asking for anything not eagerly given. He didn't interface for the overload; he interfaced because of the close contact, the illusion of mattering.

He'd liked being close to others even when they forced his helm down, because--as Rung realized retrospectively--Whirl was an extremely tactile mech, but no one ever chose to touch him. Not outside of a fight. Whirl might drape careless arms around mechs' shoulders, but they invariably pulled away from him. In the berth, it had largely been the same, but he'd been able to touch his partners enough to give them the tactile stimulation they wanted.

They might not have insulted him while interfacing with him--most of them had more sense than that--but he shared snippets of stories from afterward, when he'd been kicked out of habsuites and heard laughter before the door shut, when he'd walked in on conversations about how he needed a muter to be remotely tolerable, when his frag buddies from the previous night made jokes about how no one would wanna kiss an ugly mug like that--

And he'd gone back when they asked, because he wanted to belong. Because he figured that was as much as he was good for off the battlefield. Because he liked making other mechs feel _good_ for once.

For every admission, Rung kissed him more fiercely, trying to cover every micrometer of his frame. When he pressed a kiss directly to Whirl's spark, Whirl practically sobbed as he begged Rung to continue. Every other word out of his mouth was a _yes_ , and Rung had never seen him come undone like this--had never seen him so overwhelmed that he didn’t even think to give back.

“You’re gonna-- _fzzzt_ \--your lips.” Whirl broke off to keen and scramble against the berth, entire frame drawn taut with need. Every cable hummed beneath Rung’s servos. “If--” He hissed something in staticky binary, impossible to follow. “I’m _gonna_ \-- _fzzzzt_ \--it’s gonna _sting_.”

Rung smiled against Whirl’s spark as affection overwhelmed him. How sweet--a warning of impending overload. Rung had experience with this tactic, however; several thousand years of experience.

For the first time, he actually saw the sting as part of the appeal.

“I know, treasure,” he said, the words vibrating directly against Whirl’s spark. “Go ahead, love. I’ve got you.”

He’d forgotten the geometry of language--his denta gently scraped against Whirl’s spark as he shaped the word _love_. Charge burst over his glossa and crackled down his throat as Whirl _screamed_ and thrashed beneath him until his vocalizer shorted itself out.

Rung knew how to prolong an overload to almost painful extremes, and he pulled out all of his old tricks. By the time Whirl had ridden out the charge, Rung had him halfway to overload again. A careful application of his glossa to Whirl's throat left Whirl gasping.

“I thought--” Whirl didn't have a mouth to pant with, but his words came out choppy and raw with static. “I thought I'd be--be doing things for _you_.”

“What was it you told me so many times?” Rung inflected his voice to sound mock-thoughtful. “Yes, of course. Tell those thoughts to stuff it, and _let me take care of you_.”

Whirl almost choked on delighted laughter, and Rung grinned against Whirl's neck.

“My own words used against me!” Whirl ran a shaking claw along Rung's back, giving readily when Rung reached down and made to pin the claw over Whirl's helm. If Whirl had made the slightest effort to push back, it would have been impossible; instead, he went slack against the berth, optic curved in a wide grin. “Guess I can't argue with that.”

Rung took his other claw by the wrist and pinned it next to the first. In order to reach, he had to straddle Whirl's neck. His voxcoder hummed and clicked between his legs, and warm energon slicked Rung’s inner thighs from Whirl's wounds--not enough to be serious, but certainly enough to notice.

“You're _so hot_.” The words rumbled up through seldom-touched sensors in his pelvis, leaving him open-mouthed and gasping to vent the sudden heat rising in his frame. Whirl's grin grew as he took in Rung's reaction. “Oh, you like that, huh? You like the sultry sound of my sexy voice?”

“ _That's_ what I like better than the sound of your cooling fans,” Rung said, doubling over as charge washed through him. “Sweetspark, I _love_ your voice. _Please_ keep talking.”

He could feel the sudden swell of doubt and confusion in Whirl's field, and he had the abrupt urge to throttle whoever had claimed muting Whirl was the only way to make him into a tolerable interfacing partner.

“Am I going to need to rephrase that as an order, treasure?” he asked. "Or are you going to behave yourself?”

“Please, I’ll behave, but--” Whirl groaned, optic going offline. “Could you maybe please clamp down on my throat?” The desperation in the words was almost as sweet as the vibrations they sent rumbling through his frame.

There was no serious danger in pressure to the throat as long as he was careful not to restrict energon-flow to Whirl’s brain module for more than a klik at a time--and Rung simply didn’t have the power to manage that even if that were his intent. It was certainly less likely to harm him than those bites.

Whirl kept pleading. “I swear it’s not gonna hurt me, my claw to Primus--”

Rung pressed his thighs in against Whirl’s throat, grinding against the gashes. A spasm rocked through Whirl’s entire frame--claw to toe--and his engine revved furiously. The deep keening in the back of his throat reverberated through Rung’s pelvis and up his spinal strut. His thighs and pelvic plating fairly zapped with charge.

“Yes, sir, _yes_ , thank you-- _thank you_ \--” Whirl’s voice broke with need. “ _Please_ \--”

Rung choked Whirl between his thighs, and Whirl’s engine _roared_ with delight. The stray arcs of charge glittering against Whirl’s open wounds surely stung, but Whirl pushed _into_ the burn, his entire field screaming with arousal.

Screaming with arousal. Taking a moment to think, Rung realized that he’d never actually _seen_ Whirl overload from interfacing. They’d overloaded together in that first merge, but that certainly didn’t count. Other than that, he’d only seen Whirl overload the one time in the medbay. In almost all of their encounters, Whirl had brought Rung to overload and cleared his own charge with a medical override.

Well, it was his chance to make up for lost time, wasn’t it?

“I’m going to overload you until the only word you have left is _yes_ ,” Rung announced, squeezing Whirl’s wrists. “Until you have no charge left whatsoever. Until you’re so sated that the only thing you can imagine is _recharge._ ”

He’d done well enough in pornvids, but he’d never _meant_ any of his lines the way he meant this.

From the shock and excitement and disbelief in Whirl’s field, he was fully on board with this plan. Still, Rung loosened his thighs’ grip on Whirl’s throat and offered him his sweetest smile.

“Now that you know my intentions, will you let me have my way with you?”

“You are a literal actual god of fragging.” Whirl’s voice was reverent. “ _God, yes._ ”

***

Whirl’s armor pinged as it cooled, and the energon streaking his throat had begun smoking during his last overload. His entire frame felt melted--Rung could legitimately overpower him if he wanted to pin him back down. In fact, he didn’t need to be pinned; he couldn’t so much as twitch a claw.

His vocalizer fizzled and rebooted again. His third hard-reboot, which took _forever_ , but still seemed oddly ineffective. It’d never given him this kinda trouble before.

Thank goodness Rung had overloaded _with_ him the last time; they’d both sprawled apart on the berth to cool down as their cooling fans wheezed. Rung still had hold of one of Whirl’s claws and was rubbing relaxing circles into it.

Somewhere around his third overload, Whirl had started wondering if he was actually having the best recharge fantasy _ever_. By his seventh overload, Rung had convinced him that he was completely online and everything was _real_.

He’d had maybe ten ‘fun’ overloads since the Senate--the Functionists--had taken his hands. When Rung had found _that_ out, he’d set out on a mission to double his total.

Ten overloads later, Whirl was so wiped out that he couldn’t even muster the energy to retract his chest panels; his spark spun so slowly it seemed almost still in his chassis.

Rung’s free hand--the one not soothing his claw--eased down to start massaging the burning, half-open iris of his spark chamber.

“Do you still want me to mark you as mine?” Rung’s voice was shot through with static, his voxcoder half-blown from all the screaming they’d been doing, but the words were unmistakable.

Whirl tried to online his vocalizer to offer a fervent _yes_ , but the hard reboot was still processing; not even a click escaped. He tried to nod, but he didn’t have the strength to lift his helm. He sent an affirmative ping over short-range comms and hoped he’d given enough emphasis to the glyph--he’d marked it with lines denoting absolute and unwavering certainty, but he hadn’t known what to do with the priority markers. He didn’t want Rung to feel like he _had_ to.

“I think I _would_ like to mark you,” Rung murmured, “as my intended. Would that be acceptable?”

[[Did that last overload knock me offline and straight into the Well?]] He could hardly feel his frame, after all--it didn’t seem like much of a stretch. [[You can’t be serious.]]

“Whirl, my treasure--” Rung released his claw to run his fingers along the side of Whirl’s helm. “I would trust you with the coding. With my frame. With my spark. I think of the future and I see--I see _us_ , together, healing. With you at my side, I feel _safe_. I feel as if even the worst possible future isn’t truly bleak.” He offered Whirl that smile like sunlight, and it struck Whirl that he looked _besotted_. “I love you. Will you be my bondmate, my sparkmate, my conjunx endura?”

Whirl’s vision blurred, and he pretended it wasn’t because he’d started tearing up. Overloads had mucked with his sensors. That was all.

[[Look at me, Rung.]] He would’ve gestured at himself if he’d had the strength to move even a single micrometer. [[You could do so much better.]]

Rung’s expression went soft and fond. “No, I really can’t imagine anyone better. Not for me.”

Whirl tried his vocalizer again, but it just gave a feeble beep. He initialized a soft reset and dimmed his optic. [[You’re serious, aren’t you?]]

“Completely.”

His optic curved into a smile as the soft reset completed. His voice was hoarse, but at least he could say it out loud. “Gonna need to find some paint.”

Rung’s optics went wide and bright with cleaning solvent. “You--” His voice cracked. “You’re accepting my proposal?”

“S’long as you remember that this was your idea.” He grinned. “Anytime I start driving you up the wall, I’m gonna remind you that _you’re_ the one who decided to get bonded to this aft. You get the raw end of the deal, really.”

Rung pulled closer and nestled against Whirl’s chassis. It was still too hot for close quarters, but if Rung didn’t care, Whirl _definitely_ didn’t.

“Thank you.” Rung’s voice shook.

It took all Whirl’s remaining strength to drape an arm over Rung’s waist. “I’m thinkin’ I’d look pretty hot with orange highlights. It sure looks great on you.”

The contrast would make the engagement painting and vows about as clear as a neon sign.

“I find your blue rather appealing, myself.” Cleaning solvent made Rung’s optics spark briefly. “Perhaps we could match.”

His vows would be just as apparent as Whirl’s--they’d both be blazingly obvious.

“Don’t think I could hold a brush steady tonight.” Whirl’s voice sounded groggy even to his own audials. “First line in the morning?”

Rung nodded against Whirl’s chest, his field brimming over with elation that poured straight into Whirl’s spark.

Whirl thought back to their earlier discussions about courting and offlined his optic to hide a grin. “Golly, it’ll sure be nice to be allowed to sleep together.”

Rung tried to elbow him in retaliation, but his barely-stifled laughter made him miss the mark. Whirl tucked Rung beneath his helm, snuggling up against him even as he slipped into recharge.

“Just remember,” he mumbled. “ _You’re_ the one getting bonded to this aft.”

Rung snuck a servo around to squeeze Whirl’s aft, and they both broke into further giggles.

“And _what_ an aft it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends this installment! enthusiasticinformedfragging does have plans to continue this series, but it's hard to say for sure when the next part will be posted, since they do have a lot of other fics to write. Thank you all for the kind comments you have left, it really means a lot to them.


End file.
